


Just what I wanted: Sterek.

by CheekyDoodles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awesome Cora, Awkward Romance, Backrubs, Bad Puns, Burrito Violence, Comfort Food, Cute Stiles, Derek Has Issues, Derek Takes Care Of Stiles, Derek is a Failwolf, Fluff, Funny Stiles, Gen, Humor, Hurt Derek, Hurt Stiles, I Tried, I'm Sorry, M/M, Mild Gore, Series, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Some Plot, Stiles is Derek's Anchor, Sweet Derek, i started it in s3ish and flipflops, the new season is becoming compliant with my story wow, there will be smut, this story takes place within a wacky timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:39:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 71,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheekyDoodles/pseuds/CheekyDoodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens after Derek almost kills Stiles? Derek takes responsibility for his actions, growing closer to Stiles each day through interesting circumstances.<br/>Warning: the plot is questionable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey now, it's chapter one of my very own Sterek fanfic! I'm making this up as I go mostly, so if you have a "wtf?" moment it's my own fault. I promise future smut, and probably enough fluff to emotionally constipate you. Any mistakes are my own idiocy. I hope you enjoy.  
> I'm adding songs to some chapters, so check them out if you'd like. [Here's](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cdfSa5fWjyg) this chapter's. I tried.
> 
> ****UPDATE | 2017 | READ ME!****
> 
> Wow. If anyone is still finding this, or still subscribed, or whatever, just know that I _know_ this fic is a pile of hilarious garbage I started back in 2013. Yes, I think this is the funniest thing I've ever written, but it's still pretty bad. Here's an expert tip: never publish a WIP. Because then you'll be like me, taking 4 fucking years to finish it. Amazing.  
>  Anyway I was having a sentiment, and re-read this with the motivation to go through and clean it up, possibly editing the problematic bits and adding warnings. Like the fact that 85% of it is in past-tense, or was called out for having an injury kink (I don't). Yikes, past me.  
> So you're going to notice updated notes before each chapter, more for my sentimental benefit.  
> I have to note: this story started to take place during maybe like s3-ish? Then disregarded the actual show's plot. You're welcome.
> 
> **WARNINGS**  
> Mild gore & violence, nudity.

_Its a full moon. He's running. Everything is blurry, and red. Everything is red. Dark shapes shift and tree limbs fly. He's in the forest somewhere. He smells alcohol. It burns his lungs. He can hear nameless voices, more shapes shifting over each other. A shape is breaking away from his vision. There are no thoughts. He lunges for it._

_Someone screams._

Derek wakes up.

He wakes as if from underwater with a gasp for breath, breaching the real world. He blinks several times until his eyes adjust to the afternoon sunlight brimming through the windows in the loft. He feels his face with clammy hands.

He isn't in the forest, he's home, in his bed.

He adjusts for a minute, then sits up slowly. A dull pain, like a sore muscle or a freshly healed wound throbs on the side of his neck. He reaches up to rub it cautiously. _What is that from?_ An unfamiliar blanket covers his lap, and when he moves from the bed, he discovers his junk. He doesn't sleep naked. There are particles of dirt in the wrinkled bed sheets.

He listens for another presence in the dwelling, and when there isn't an obvious one, Derek stands from the bed. He definitely doesn't need Cora walking in. Spying his pants from yesterday on the floor, he picks them up and shakes them out. He spies the dried blood on them before seeing it. It isn't his own blood. It smells like salt and stale life and someone very familiar.

"Ah, you're awake."

Derek drops the jeans and spins around to face Peter, statuesque at the top of the spiral stair case.

"What happened?" Derek asks, still fighting for full alacrity. Edges of memories tickle his mind, teasing him. His insides seem _wrong_ , all inside-out and backwards.

"You don't remember?" Peter walks down the stairs with his air of nonchalance, his voice just as lofty. It makes Derek desperately want to get his hands around his neck.

"If I did, why would I be asking?"

"No," Peter pauses, stopping at the large dining table, contemplating. "I just think its a little surprising that you don't."

"Remember what?" Derek's patience is beginning to peel, that bad feeling becoming stronger. The feeling of being out of the loop is the worst.

Peter smooths a hand over the table they mostly used for discussing plans, not eating dinner. "During the full moon last night, you lost control." He kind of smiles a bit, like the statement affords him a little drop of twisted happiness. "It seems your stress is catching up to you."

Derek opens his mouth to argue, but stops. He remembers his nightmare, and how real it felt. Like he completely lost his control. Had he? He stays quiet.

Peter sobers and continues on gingerly, "You did something... Bad last night."

"I lost control."

"Well. Not just that."

The blood on his jeans. Derek's backwards insides knot. He hurt someone. "How bad was it?"

"I don't know. On a scale of 'Yikes' to 'Unforgivable' do you rank attacking Scott's friend?"

Derek's stomach sink. "Which friend?"

"Oh, the loud one, what is his name? I've never really liked him, truthfully. He talks too much and he is so... Twitchy. Is he on medication"

Derek's stomach falls out of his body and hits the floor with a splat. 

Stiles. The blood was Stiles'. Oh no.

"I attacked Stiles? Is he..."

Upon seeing Derek's distress, Peter mends, "Don't make that face, he's alive. But you did a real number on the poor, twitchy boy. Broke his leg like a twig." He raises his eyebrows thoughtfully.

All at once, vivid memories from the night before splatter the inside of Derek's head.

Moonlit night and Derek is loping through the forest on all fours, weaving between trees at break-neck speed. Everything  _was_ red because of his werewolf eyes. In the rarity that is a full-fledged wolf form, a person loses sight of colors completely. Except for one: red. Strangely enough, the effect is the exact opposite of a dog, who can perceive just about every color besides red. Just another werewolf thing. 

Then he saw the figures. People, he realizes now. His friends.

Without control, the shapes heralded all of his attention. Like a shark to blood. He honed in on one of the shapes and lunged. He remembered a cracking sound, and the same scream from his dream.

Oh, God. It was Stiles who screamed. It was Stiles, running away from him.

Derek flies to his uncle and snatches him by the collar, getting in his face. "If you were there, why didn't you stop me?"

His uncle huffs, unphased. "Because Scott was faster than me. And look where you're swinging that thing."

Scott. Derek could throw up pure guilt right there on his uncle's shoes. "But why wasn't I in control?" He is always in control. All the time.

"Your guess is as good as mine, nephew. Maybe that classic rage you use to anchor yourself is getting soft?"

Derek frowns intensely for a moment, but backs off. "Do you know where they are?" 

"Six Flags. The hospital, of course." As soon as the sarcastic words leave Peter's mouth, Derek is looking for his car keys. "I don't know if that's such a good idea right now. Derek?"

Derek ignores him and snatches his car keys off the floor. He's headed out the door when his uncle blocks him. Sometimes Derek forgets how fast he can be. "Move, Peter."

"Just what do you think you're going to accomplish barging into the hospital?"

"I'm going to apologize. Something you're unfamiliar with."

Peter theatrically puts a hand over his chest. "Amazing, your lack of forethought. Also, ouch."

"Move your ass, or I'll move it for you."

"Seriously, Derek. Do you think you're going to get anywhere near that boy without Scott killing you?"

Derek narrows his eyes. He hadn't thought of that. And if anything, the angel Scott was at his best friend's side this very moment.

"He _would've_ killed you last night if I hadn't broken your neck to knock you out and drag you away. Which, by the way, I could've left you there to be found by a frisky bear. Did I hear a, 'thank you Uncle, for being awesome'? No."

That explained the lingering pain. Derek glares. "I'm going anyway." He needs to at least try. He's hurt enough people in his life already. He starts to shove past his uncle but his uncle puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Just one more thing." Peter says.

"What?" Derek snaps, even closer to strangling him.

Peter gestures down to Derek's bare body. "I think the hospital requires its guests to wear clothes."

 

 

 

 


	2. Morality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darting through the automatic doors of the hospital, Derek comes to realize he has no idea what he should say to Stiles. Or Scott. He curses himself for not coming up with anything on the car ride it took to get here. He'd been busy simmering in his own self hatred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is here, enjoy. Any mistakes are my bad.  
> EDIT: I'm adding songs, so [here.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-A1NyhwoiU)
> 
>  ****UPDATE | 2017****  
>  So like, changing this all to present tense is a pain.
> 
> **WARNINGS**  
> Hospitals, injuries, panic attacks.

Darting through the automatic doors of the hospital, Derek comes to realize he has no idea what he should say to Stiles. Or Scott. He curses himself for not coming up with anything on the car ride it took to get here. He'd been busy simmering in his own self hatred.

Waiting at the empty receptionist's desk, Derek considers circumventing the check-in and finding Stiles and Scott on his own. He doesn't see or smell Mrs. McCall amongst the other nurses, but maybe it's a blessing. The weight of her disappointed look might destroy whatever is keeping him on his feet. Instead he thinks about the familiar hospital scent, breaking it down into its separate components. It eases his nerves. Maybe the scent of medicine and cleaning solution does something to heal his brain. But probably not.

A winded-looking nurse, a woman in her thirties, turns the corner and slides behind the desk. "May I help you?" When she looks up from her logging into her computer, her heart flutters like a startled bird. Derek wasn't unused to that reaction, nor was he conceited. But he knows where looks can get a person in society, and he uses his looks when he needs.

"I'm here to see Stiles?" Derek returns her polite smile, then internally face-palms. Stiles isn't his actual name. He has no idea what his name is. He winces. "I mean, um, Stilinski?"

The woman nods and turns to the screen to look it up. "What's your affiliation? I'm sorry, it says here only family is allowed to see him. Are you family?"

"I'm his cousin," Derek says too quickly. "Um, Miguel... Stilinski."  He closes his eyes, already trying to forget saying it. If this wasn't his own fault in the first place, he'd promise Stiles to kick his ass into the next life.

The woman gives him a suspicious look. "May I see some I.D.?"

And this is one of those times when some good looks and a little charisma come in handy. He shifts into the alias of tragic hero. "Well, you see," he sighs and leans over the counter, getting closer to the woman. Her heart flutters again. "I live in Sacramento, and when I heard that my cousin was in the hospital I drove here right away to see him."

Her face softens. "You two must be really close."

"Very." He almost chokes. "But, I forgot my wallet with all of my identification at home. Please, may I see him? He's very important to me." He said urgently, widening his eyes in plea. 

The nurse wavers, glancing down the hall, before saying in a hushed voice, "Okay, he's in room B132, second floor, left wing. You don't know me." She winks.

Derek blows out his cheeks in genuine relief. "Thank you."

"Good luck Miguel," she waves.

He waves and turns away to walk towards the elevator, smile melting into a scowl.

Letting aside a group of people before boarding the elevator, he decides now is better than never to think of what to say to Scott and Stiles. Mostly Stiles, whom Derek has not had an the most outstanding relationship with.

Derek isn't without sympathy or empathy, yet he realizes he isn't the best communicator. He usually opts for the brass tacks-- the short and not so sweet. Because emotions are things he'd rather keep well-shepherded. _Feeling..._  gets complicated. With that said, a sentiment along the lines of, "Hey Stiles, I'm really sorry I handicapped you," or, "I know I've threatened to rip your throat out but I never meant it," isn't the best way to tell someone how truly sorry you are. 

The elevator announced his arrival with a _bing-bong_ and he stepped out onto the squeaky tile of the second floor. He needs to think of something fast.

Derek rounds the corner of the hall slowly, at war with the desire to try and mend his actions and trying to formulate a good apology when he smells him.

Stiles' blood is in the air again. Derek recognizes it even under the cover of all those hospital smells: antiseptics that burn the back of his throat, the smothering sterile cotton bandages. The farther down the hall he gets, the stronger the scent become. He counts the room numbers until the view through a glass partition stops him in mid step.

Through the thin glass partition he sees Stiles sleeping in a hospital bed. His left leg is in a cast and elevated by a sling. A heart monitor stands by his side, supervising the heart that Derek can clearly hear beating with the regular, slow rhythm of sleep.

Derek has the out of place thought that he's never actually seen Stiles asleep before. He's always seen him bouncing around, exhausting various facial expressions and spewing unfiltered chatter. Now the only movement he makes is the involuntary rise and fall of his chest. His face is slack, mouth still. Something about his sleeping face makes him look fragile, but maybe it's the handful of bruises and bandages taped to his skin.

Derek turns away him. Unfortunately when he turns around it's right into Scott. His inner turmoil drowned out Scott's footsteps.

"What are you doing here?" Scott demands, low and deadly.

Derek feels the anger in the air swarm around him. He raises his hands in submission. "Easy, Scott."

Scott is staring at Derek hatefully, which normally wouldn't bother him much more than an ant on his finger, but right now it feels like his body is crawling with ants. "Why should I be? After what you did to Stiles? He almost died, Derek. You broke his leg. He passed out from the pain!"

Fresh guilt comes oozing back to Derek, like tar. "Scott. I came to apologize."

"Why did you do it?" Scott asks.

Derek doesn't know. "I don't know. I couldn't remember any of it until my uncle told me. I had no control over myself. I saw something moving and it was like I couldn't stop myself, I just--" he breaks off, looking away from his fault again. "I never meant to," he finishes lamely.

But if anyone would understand, it's Scott. And just like that, Scott softens a fraction, and shifts from his confrontational stance. "I know you didn't." 

"Yeah." Then Derek remembers something. "I remember smelling alcohol."

Scott runs a hand through his dark hair sheepishly. "We were uh, drinking. I'm able to anchor myself now. Besides, I don't get drunk, you know?"

Derek ignores that last part. "So, you two were the woods, at night, getting drunk on a full moon?"

"Yeah."

"On a full moon?" Derek emphasizes again.

Scott ducks his head.

Derek sighs, suddenly tired now that a part of his guilt has washed away. He wants to mention that if they weren't out being careless morons then this probably wouldn't have happened, but the look on Scott's face tells him Scott knew that too."You two are idiots."

Scott nods, rubbing the back of his neck.

"So, how is he?" Derek asks.

Scott fills Derek in on Stiles' injuries. When Derek came charging, Stiles did try in vain to run. Derek lashed out at Stiles with his claws, shredding his shirt and leaving shallow cuts on his back. But in the same second his other claw came down on Stiles' leg, which resulted in the compound fracture of his left tibia and fibula. In medical language that meant Derek had cuffed his shin with enough force to blow the bones out out through the skin of his leg. He'd fallen face first onto the forest floor, Derek's terrifying full werewolf form bearing down on him. That was when Peter caught up to Derek to break his neck and drag him home. Scott had carried Stiles to the hospital, running as fast as any car could drive. Stiles graciously fainted from the pain on the way there.

By the time Scott finished, the tar was up to Derek's neck.

"So you really didn't know what you were doing?" Scott asks again.

Did Derek stutter the first time? "No, and I can't remember what happened before it either." Then he thought of something else. "What did you tell his dad?"

Scott furrows his eyebrows in confusion. "Stiles told me not to tell him it was you." Scott looks worried, a much more typical emotion for him.

"I'm going to see Stiles." Derek says, walking toward the room.

"No wait, he's asleep."

"Not anymore." About twelve seconds ago he heard Stiles' heartbeat quicken and his breath come irregularly. Scott really needs to use his senses better.

Stiles' eyes are still closed. His skin looks sickly and even paler up close. The way Stiles' features stand out starkly on his face, reminds Derek of an old china doll his mother used to keep on a high shelf.  Maybe it's the fluorescent lights.

"He's pale." Derek says quietly enough for only Scott to hear him.

"The doctor said he a lost some blood."

Right.

"Scott?" Stiles' voice is a tiny, pitiful sound and Derek fights back the urge to rush to him.

"Hey buddy," Scott says softly, going to him first and taking his hand. "It's me. You okay?"

Stiles' eyes flutter open slowly, finding Scott's face.

"Hey Scotty," Stiles smiles. He's out of it. "I'm great."

Scott laughs. "That's great, Stiles. Pain meds," he whispers to Derek.

Stiles shifts around and his laugh shrinks to a whimper. "It hurts."

"I know, I'm sorry." Scott rubs his thumb over Stiles' wrist.  Scott saps some of his pain away and a hollow feeling digs into Derek's chest. He's responsible for this, he should be the one to take the pain away.

"Stiles, Derek is here," Scott winces from the adopted pain but his voice stays bright. "He wants to tell you he's sorry."

Derek speaks softly. "Stiles. I'm sorry I did this to you."

Stiles' glassy eyes roll around the dim room, not really focusing on anything. But his heart starts beating faster. "What'd you... do?"

"That wolf that hurt you, that was me. I don't know why." Short and not so sweet.

Stiles' feverish eyes seem to finally find Derek. Stiles only looks at him for a few seconds before he stiffens. His eyes widen.

"No... Nononono..." Stiles tries to back up, but his injuries won't let him. He yelps when his I.V. cord tugs at him.

Both Derek and Scott bristle, Scott being the first one to speak up. "Stiles, hey. It's okay, it's just us--"

"No!" Stiles shouts. His breath is fast and shallow. He grabs at Scott's arm with both of his hands. "Scott-- Scott! It's here again, it's here again," he cries, frantic.

"What's going on?" Derek stands useless at the foot of the bed, charged up with the need to do something but wary to come any closer.

"He's having a panic attack. And I, I think he's scared of you." Scott tries in vain to console Stiles, who's heart monitor is going to bring a nurse running at any moment.

"Derek, I think you need to go." Scott urges. Derek doesn't move and when Stiles cries out again, Scott shouts. "Derek, just go!"

Derek looks at Stiles' cowering form for a second more, and ducks out.

Derek leaves the hospital under the threat of drowning in himself. When the receptionist asks if everything is okay with his cousin, he ignores her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My tumblr.](http://calamity-annie.tumblr.com/)


	3. Batman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that took longer than it should've, but it's here! Any grammar mistakes are fault, I'll probably edit later. Enjoy.  
> Here's a song for your trouble, [right hizzle](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mYVVEZY19BU)
> 
>  
> 
> ****UPDATE | 2017****
> 
>  
> 
> Again, just editing, and shaving the angst beast. In the original, I realized I never mentioned anything about Derek having a life outside of the task he is about to take upon himself, because to me I had no clue what he got up to. In later episodes, Derek mentions to Scott that he owns the building he lives in. Also, Derek seems like a guy who understands the stock market.
> 
> **WARNINGS**  
> Depression mentions, annoying uncles, injuries.

The time that followed the scene at the hospital can only be described as mentally constipating for Derek.

The only thing keeping him mostly sane were Scott's text updates on Stiles' condition.  
Stiles was out of the hospital now and recovering well at home. That was settling. The only snag was when Scott said Stiles had been having what Scott could only surmise as panic attacks. At first, they chalked it up to good ol' post-traumatic stress. They were all familiar with that demon. Further on in Stiles' recovery though, the attacks morphed into something closer to hallucinations, Scott had explained.

Just great. 

Since Scott was under the impression that Derek's presence was the trigger of the attacks (the scene at the hospital being some pretty good evidence to support that), Derek kept his distance. He didn't argue. He just tried to put the ordeal on the back burner for now. But it was kind of hard, for a few reasons.

One, he can not figure out how he lost control over his, well, control, for a reason not apparent to himself. Two, with Stiles' aversion to him, his good intentions have begun to fester. He couldn't go to Stiles and make everything okay. From a myriad of past experiences, Derek knows he can't just "make it all okay." It's a weird kind of helpless agony,. Like keeping an angry bear in a tea cabinet.

So Derek continues under the guise of his normal life. Cultivating a stock portfolio, being the supervisor of his building of artistically dilapidated living spaces, and the maybe not so normal business of being part of a werewolf pack. It isn't enough to push the pot quite to the back of the stove. And Peter's "advice" isn't exactly the emotional fiber he needs either.

"Just forget it Derek,did you even like Steve anyway?" Peter says to him now, three weeks after the fact. It's just the two of them in Derek's loft today. Isaac lives at Scott's now, and Cora is out... Hell he can't remember what she said she was doing today.

Derek is leaning against the large window of the loft, staring ill-tempered at the mutinous sunny day. It's become a common habit as of late. Bags hang from his eyes and his stubble is on its way to a beard. "Stiles. For the millionth damn time, his name is Stiles."

Peter "tsks" behind him. "Why is it so important to you?"

Derek doesn't have an answer for that. He isn't sure. It just is. "It just is. Now shut up."

"That sounds exactly like a statement you made when you were a toddler," Peter laughs.

Derek groans. "Maybe it's because I don't want to be like _you._ " There's that, and something else he can't quite place, but it has something to do with the fact that when he tries to sleep, the darkness behind his eyes is the color of the bruises on Stiles' body.

A few weeks after that, Peter reignites the same conversation. "Derek. Will you drop the tragic act? It isn't healthy. You might find this hard to believe but I actually do love and care about your mental--"

"Yeah, right." Derek says at the same time Cora does. Derek is staring out the window again, Cora sitting opposite from him on the ledge, her chin on her knee. It's drizzling today, his favorite weather.

According to Scott, Stiles is now back at school, able-bodied on crutches for the time being. Which is positive news. But the snag in the sweater has gotten bigger-- he's still having the visions. 

"Well not a lot," Peter admits. "But I know you haven't left your house more than twice this month. I don't even think you've changed your clothes this week. It's, gross. Then again I've only been by twice. Cora, how many times have you checked on your dearly-depressive brother this month?"

"This is the third time," Cora says. "But I can definitely smell you from the street, dude. And I know a week-long stench reaches about that far."

Derek should argue that yes, he has changed his clothes, but he honestly can't remember. That's a bad sign. He can't start slipping downhill again. Depressive episodes are one thing, and he's not struggling with them so much now, what with the growth of stability in his life. Right now it's mostly just guilt. If guilt could really eat away at a person, he imagined half of his brain must be gone by now. 

Derek sighs. "I can't stop thinking about it," he admits quietly, exhausted.

"About what, exactly?" Cora asks.

"All of it. Like, why did I even lose control? Why did I go for Stiles?"

"Are you saying you would've preferred it be another innocent person?" Peter inquires.

"No, I wish it wasn't anyone. The way he looked at me in the hospital... Was like I was his worst nightmare."

Peter claps a hand on Derek's shoulder. "So, you're his Batman?" Peter smiles, attempting to cheer him up.

Derek reaches up to break a few of Peter's fingers in reply.

Peter snatches his hand away. "Violence, Derek! Really. How is your constant mean streak going to help you in this situation?"

"I can't blame him, you can be scary. Sorry." Cora shrugs. "Have they figured out why he's still freaking out?"

"No. Scott says they're going to the vet today to figure it out."

Peter squints, adjusting his phalanges. "Then maybe you ought to tag along. Don't bite me, but my advice is to go and try to apologize to the boy again instead of brooding around here all day like a constipated dementor."

"I can't."

"Well, why? My God its like I'm talking to a four year old." Peter mutters.

"I don't want to scare him again. And I can't just push an apology on someone."

"So what? I think you should go," Cora says. "I don't think it could get any worse."

"Well, I don't know about that," Peter winces.

Derek simmers for a minute longer before snapping to. "I'm going." He rips his keys off the table and heads out the door.

"Was I that convincing? Maybe I have a future in therapy!" Peter calls after him.

Derek slams the door harder than needed.

 

__________

 

High school is just about to end for the day when Derek pulls into the wet student parking lot. He'd texted Scott to let him know he was on his way. Derek isn't a coward, he just wants to see Scott before he sees Stiles. He idles in his car for a minute, again realizing he has no material. But after this long he doesn't care. He just has an ache to make things right, or at least try.

A flicker of movement catches his attention. It's Scott exiting the school to meet him. Derek leaves his car and meet him halfway, oily asphalt puddles licking his boots.

"So you want to come with to the clinic?" Scott asks. He smells like his usual self, looks like his usual self. Derek is a bit jealous of that right now.

"Yes."

Scott wrinkles his brow, his "best friend shield" activated. "I don't know Derek. I don't want him to freak out again. He's literally just getting back on his feet. Literally."

"You think I do?" Derek doesn't mean to sound as harsh as he does. 

"Are you okay?" Scott asks, probably seeing, smelling and even tasting the not okay shape Derek is bent in.

"I'm sorry. Look," Derek's words don't come to him for a moment. "I can't forgive myself, Scott."

Scott drops his shield a bit. "I dunno... Only if Stiles is fine with it."

"Fine."

The school bell rings then. It's just as shrill and annoying as it ever was. Students burst from the school doors, eager to get home. The parking lot fills with people quickly, like liquid filling the bottom of a glass. The two wolves search for the Jeep in a sea of students. Derek feels a punch to the gut to see the familiar car in a handicap spot. And then Derek sees him.

Stiles is crutching toward is car, assisted by Isaac who has his arms full of both their books and bookbags. Derek almost darts out in front of an oncoming car to get to them, Scott pulling him back before he can dent the Honda Civic. They reach the Jeep just as as Stiles and Isaac do, both looking surprised to see Derek.

"Derek? What are you doing here?" Stiles asks first, for once not making a quirky expression.

Derek takes him in. He looks okay again, aside from the crutches under his arms and cast on his leg. No cuts, no bruises, skin back to its normal color. Its eases Derek's mind immediately. Maybe now he can hold this image of Stiles behind his eyes instead of the one that keeps him up at night. 

"Dude you look like hell." Isaac raises his eyebrows.

"Thanks its something new I'm trying." God, Derek sounds just like Peter.

Isaac only grins.

Scott steps forward, into their square. "Stiles, Derek is going to come with us to the clinic." He says it carefully, like he's testing the water.

Now Stiles makes a face. A confused one. "Okay? But uh, why?"

"Because he--" Scott starts to speak, and Derek interrupts him. 

"Because I wanted to check on you. After, well, what I did to you."

Stiles regards him, expression tight but otherwise unknowable. "Okay, sure."

It's wary, but it isn't a refusal. It's a win to Derek.

"Wait," Isaac blinks. "Scott, we have practice today."

Scott looks like what a question mark might look like, if a question mark could have a human visage. "We do? Well I'll just skip it. Again. I have to take Stiles."

Isaac shakes his head, grim. "It's mandatory. And you already kind of skipped the last two weeks. Coach is ready to burst a vein."

Scott swallows, actually looking between the three of them as if for an answer.

Stiles gives him one. "Just go to practice, Scott. I'll be fine without you, really. And, hey, I won't forgive you if you lose your position as Captain. It's all I have going for me. For us. For this family."

Scott frowns. "You're sure?"

Stiles says "One-hundred percent," just as Derek says "I'll go with him."

Scott frowns deeper and Isaac blinks. "Are you gonna be okay with that?" Scott asks his best friend.

Stiles, the best friend, rolls his eyes. "Yeah, it's the least he can do. Right, Derek?"

Derek nods, ignoring Stiles' jab because, well, he's right. "Don't worry, Scott."

Scott seems to relax. "Okay. Call me later and let me know what's going on."

"I will, now get out of here, _Mom_ ," Stiles says as Derek is taking his school things from Isaac. Stiles smacks Scott's retreating butt with one of his crutches, and Scott laughs. "Make daddy proud!" Stiles calls.

Once the two wolves have melted backs into the sea of students, Derek and Stiles just stand there, Derek staring at Stiles probably too hard.

"So, what's up?" Stiles tries to sound casual, but his voice cracks.

"I'm here to tell you I'm sorry," Derek says stonily, but then the words he'd held inside for a month stumble out of his mouth. "I tried to tell you back in the hospital that I never meant to do this, any of this, that I'm sorry and I can't-" He regains a hair of composure, expelling a breath. "I'm sorry."

Derek looks into Stiles' silent eyes, wishing he'd say something. Punch him. Anything.

A beat passes. "Yeah, Scott told me you were worried. He said that'd you'd come by, to try and apologize but I, yeah I freaked out, I guess..." Stiles rubs the back of his neck, looking down like he's embarrassed. "Look, I know it wasn't your fault. I told Scott that I don't think the _Not_ -So-Raven visions are connected to you, but he wasn't sure. And I didn't contact you because, well, to be honest I don't have your number. I'm sorry."

Derek physically sags. "Don't say you're sorry. Just don't, Stiles." Stiles shouldn't be the one to feel out of sorts. Derek is the one who deserved to feel like garbage slime. The desire to put his hand under Stiles' chin and tip it up to see his face, lands on him like a butterfly. He brushes it away.

"Okay, sorry. Oops." Suddenly Stiles hobbles closer to Derek and asks in a low voice, "Scott said you had no control and you couldn't remember anything after you went crazy-wolf. Did you find out why?" His detective mode must've been activated.

Derek was expecting a snarky remark or an insult. Is he forgiven, or is it forgotten? Derek shakes his head. "No. I don't know what happened, or why. If I was poisoned, it was because someone was trying to get me killed. Or someone _else_ killed."

"Maybe it was like some sort of werewolf drug." Stiles' eyebrows raise, brown eyes catching the light of the emerging sun. "Is there a weird type of faerie mushroom that makes werewolves go wolf-shit crazy?"

Derek doesn't know if Stiles was messing with him or not. He rolls his eyes. "No. At least, not that I know of."

"Well, I guess that's what Deaton's for. By the way, are you okay? You really do look like hell warmed over. Microwaved, even." 

"I'm... Getting there." Which is the truth. Seeing Stiles walking and talking like himself has scrubbed a good bit of that nasty tar out of him. 

"If you say so, bro."

"Don't call me bro."

"Well _dude_ ," Stiles over-enunciates, "let's go see what's wrong with me. And why I got my ass torn up."

Derek glares at him. He turns to Stiles' Jeep and tries the door, to no avail.

"Keys, genius." Stiles says.

This is not Derek's month for cognitive power. He turns to see Stiles fumbling to get his car keys from his jean pocket, crutches obstructing him.

"Here," without thinking, Derek sticks his hand into Stiles' back pocket to retrieve the keys.

"Oh gee thanks," Stiles yelps.

Derek opens the Jeep, sliding Stile's things onto the passenger side seat. He holds the door open for Stiles, careful to stay stone-faced. Stiles crutches over to the Jeep and stops, awkwardly steadying himself on the side of it, trying to get his crutches into the car without falling. Dear Lord, his patience is depleting. Derek, not very patiently, takes Stiles' arm and snatches his crutches away, sliding them into the car. Stiles looks a little uneasy as Derek helps him into the drivers seat. Maybe Derek does have a mean streak.

The thought passes when Derek presses his hand to Stiles' back and Stiles abruptly gasps in pain. Slightly alarmed, (and actually questioning how in the hell he was able to drive and if Derek should drive them instead) Derek asks if he'd hurt him. The smell of his blood, all too familiar now, permeates easily in the wet air.

"No, it's nothing," Stiles winces, feigning with a funny jerk of the head.

_His claws lashing out to pierce the flesh of Stiles' back._

The cuts. The panic attacks. Uh oh.

"You still haven't healed." Derek doesn't mean for it to sound accusing but it does anyway.

Stiles caves, his animated face crumpling with poorly concealed pain. "No. Don't tell Scott."

"What? Does anyone know?"

"I- I didn't want anyone to worry, okay? Everyone has enough stuff to deal with without having to worry about me and some little,  _wolfy_ cuts, alright? I'm fine."

If this kid even knew. "You'd be surprised. We're going to the vet. I'll meet you there." Derek shuts the car door.

Stiles rolls his window down. "What if I don't? And I go home to be a happy cripple and watch _Supernatural_ and eat oreos?"

"Well then you might die." Derek shrugs, turning away.

"Wait, wait what? Derek!" Stiles calls after him.

Derek salutes off the top of his head with two fingers, walking back to his car. Stiles will do what he says.

For his own sake, he should.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My tumblr.](http://calamity-annie.tumblr.com/)


	4. Answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any mistakes are my own I hope this doesn't blow yadda yadda, enjoy. Not spoiling anything here but I haven't been able to stop laughing about the first part of this chapter all day. It was early okay and I'm lame :3 (I'm not that funny)  
> Wasn't sure what song to use for this one.. But I killed [this one](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6sQCATXFzsI) while writing. I listen to weird music..
> 
>  ****UPDATE | 2017****  
>  And it's still funny to me, 4 years later. Wow. Good writing. Anyway I added a bit more structure to the vet's visit. In the original, I blamed Derek's shift on the alpha pack, because that made 12% more sense than anything I could come up with at the time.

Stiles and Derek meet at the vet's office, Derek arriving a good twenty minutes ahead of Stiles, who'd stopped for Taco Bell.

He shouldn't be angry, Stiles insisted, because he'd bought Derek a Beefy Five-Layer Burrito. And he should be grateful because these things are five layers of "awesome cheesy beefy goodness." Oh really? Thanks. Derek smiled, took the burrito, turned and threw it so damn hard it became a black speck in the sky before it began to sink to the horizon.

Stiles stares at him, open mouthed. He throws his hands up and says, "Well, that isn't going to be a very nice gesture when it plows through some unsuspecting persons windshield. You could've just eaten it instead of causing a poor soul a violent beefy burrito surprise."

Derek assists him out of his car less generously this time, _almost_ letting Stiles' face say hello to the asphalt. His generosity only had a fifteen minute window today, not a twenty minute one.

The front door chimes when Derek opens it for Stiles and they meet Deaton at the front counter.

"Stiles, Derek, what a surprise. Are you looking for Scott? I'm afraid he isn't in today." Dr. Deaton greets them in his characteristically good-natured way.

"Hey man what's up?" Stiles waves. "How's business going--"

"Not Scott, actually we need your help," Derek interrupts. "With this one." He gestures to Stiles.

Stiles throws him a look, narrowing his eyes. "Excuse me, _this one_? Am I a plant or something? By the way doc, he turned the burrito I got him into an heavy artillery grade D beef grenade, so don't be surprised when you hear about it on the news." He says, matter of factly.

"That's right, I wanted to ask, how are you holding up Stiles?" Deaton asks.

"Just fancy. Watch what I can do." Stiles holds himself off the floor with his crutches, swinging. "Eh? Cool right?"

Deaton nods, slightly amused. He turns towards Derek for answers, to Stiles' irritation. "So how is he?"

"His leg is fine but there's a problem: the cuts I left on his back haven't healed yet and it's been a month. And he's having visions."

Stiles groans. "What are you? My werewolf mom? I already have one werewolf mom, his name is Scott. Geez."

"Since you're acting like a child I can only treat you like one, Stiles," Derek retaliates.

Stiles actually pouts, proving Derek's point. Who actually pouts?

"How about we continue this conversation in the back, gentlemen?" Deaton suggests, drawing a line of common sense in the bickering. The boys comply, following the doctor into the back room they are too familiar with.

"So Stiles, how about you tell me what's going on? It's easiest if you be honest." Deaton smiles. Derek is envious of the man's patience.

Stiles leans against the shiny metal operating table and flares nostrils, sighing in defeat. "I've been having lots of them."

"Visions?"

I guess? I see things that aren't really there, just out of nowhere. Like I'm... Hallucinating. Randomly."

"What is it you see?"

Stiles bites his lip, uneasy. He watches the floor as he speaks. "I keep... I keep seeing Derek. Well, Wolf-Derek. Coming after me. For instance I'll uh, just be sitting in class and I'll see him outside, trying to get in. I'll look in the mirror and see him behind me. Sometimes in the dark I," his voice wavers and Derek can taste his fear, something close to the taste of bug spray. "I see his red eyes, in the dark. Staring at me. The thing is, I know, I know that it's not real, that it's not there but. I can't shake these things. They scare the hell out of me." His voice cracks again today.

Derek does his best to keep his face and posture devoid of any emotion even when he starts decaying inside.

Deaton steps closer to Stiles, concern coloring his features. "When did this start?"

"Um, the first day in the hospital. When Derek came in and tried to talk to me." Deaton nods, apparently familiar with the story. "Scott told me later but, I really didn't know it was you, Derek. The drugs didn't help." Stiles peeks at him, his bright eyes troubled.

Derek is quiet.

"Stiles, I'm going to need to examine the wound. If you don't mind, I'll need you to sit on the table and remove your shirt."

Deaton turns to grab a pair of purple latex gloves from a box on a metal shelf, and Derek moves to help Stiles hop onto the table. Stiles reaches behind to pull his shirt over his head, Derek leaning in behind him to get a look. A few gauze bandages crudely cover most of his back, undoubtedly the work of him doing it himself. Deaton snaps his gloves, and with professional gentleness begins peeling the bandage back.

Stiles hisses in a breath as the bandage comes away, taking a few fragments of clotted blood with it. Underneath are four superficial diagonal gashes, each about eight inches long and red with fresh blood welling in them. The skin around them ia red and irritated, worn out from trying to heal this long. It's Dereks turn to hiss. Not only from the sight, but from the smell. It smells... wrong. Not like a normal human wound. There's an undercurrent of something insidious.

"I clean it everyday..." Stiles offers, sheepish. "But I can't really see it. How bad is it?"

Deaton runs a finger along a cut, inspecting. "Do you want me to be honest?" It's his classic inquiry.

"I guess not." Stiles decides.

Derek stands by Stiles' side, watching Deaton examine him while keeping tabs on Stiles' signals. Stiles knows he's being watched so he tries his best to not wince or squirm, but his hands are gripping the edge of the table for dear life. Derek wants to let Stiles squeeze his hand. Stiles' full strength wouldn't hurt him very much.

The vet breathes in through his nose, and draws back. "Well, I have good news."

"Really?" Derek and Stiles say in the same beat, glancing at each other.

"You can be healed, Stiles. But it'll take the help of a certain frowning Alpha."

Stiles makes a face, but can't hide his relief. "Aw not _that_ guy. He's such a sour wolf. I don't think he even knows how to laugh."

Derek feels like laughing now, not because Stiles was funny (which he isn't) but because of the relief. "What do I need to do?"

"Well, we have two options, I'm sure you're familiar with them, Derek. I already know our squeamish patient will object to the first one."

"Well? What are they?" Stiles asks, eager.

"Derek should be able to take those hallucinations away immediately, but it is very dangerous. You see, when Derek injured you with his claws so close to your spinal cord, he unintentionally transferred, well, images into your mind. The cause of your hallucinations."

"So are we talking ice bath? Like with Isaac's memory thing?"

The vet smiles. "Not quite. Our first option: Derek will have to puncture your neck with his claws and draw the images out. After they're gone the wounds can heal successfully. Obviously it will be very painful. And you run a great risk of paralysis."

"I'm not so sure how to do it even," Derek tosses out there, blunt. "It takes practice. Peter knows how but..." He trails off, everyone thinking the same thing: no.

Stiles pales, eyes wide. "What's the other option?"

Derek isn't sure what the "other option" is, but he is all for it if it's safer.

Deaton speaks to Derek. "The same way you are able to take away a person's pain, you can also take away the phantasms. Skin to skin contact. This way will take multiple sessions, and the wounds will heal a little each time. Depending on the severity of Stiles condition, and the consistency of which the treatments are preformed, it could take a few weeks, I think. I'm not sure. But I am sure it is completely safe."

"Can't he just do his thing for like, a day straight? That'd work right? I'd be better in no time." Stiles snaps his fingers, offering his genius idea.

"Unfortunately it doesn't quite work like that. Too much could hurt Derek, while not enough could continue to hurt you. Ideally, I would've liked to know about this issue soon after the fact. I'm afraid that, with the time to _marinate_ so to speak, the energy inside you has only been able to become stronger.

Stiles pinkens. "Oh. yeah."

Deaton clicks his tongue. "Once every two days or so would be sufficient, I believe."

"I'll do it," Derek agrees.

Stiles agrees as well. "Well okay then, lets get this over with. What do I...?" Stiles asks eagerly, getting ahead of himself.

"You're going to need to lie down, first."

With a little help, Stiles is laying face down on the table, displaying his horror movie wound. He shivers a bit, claiming the table is cold.

"Now Derek," Deaton guides, "place your hands on his back, on top of the wound. Stiles, remain quiet and still. This shouldn't hurt."

Derek does as told, gingerly placing his hands on Stiles bare back. His hands look large and dark, resting on the soft white skin. The broken skin under his hands is hot, angry. He also feels Stiles' heart beating, the seesaw of his lungs, all the little operations a body manages without the mind being conscious of them. Total responsibility for this life is suddenly humming underneath his hands.

"You should feel something similar to extracting pain, but you need to focus your energy on Stiles' psyche. Concentrate and you should feel something dark, out of place. Draw it out, like you would physical pain."

"I hope this works." Stiles mutters, face pressed to the table.

With those words of encouragement Derek starts. It's like Deaton said, the familiar feeling of alleviating pain courses up his veins, turning them an ill black color. He searches for the alien material and feels it easily; like poison in Stiles' body. He starts pulling it out, slowly.

Then with the ache comes a burst of sensory delusion. Derek can still see the room he stands in, but in his mind's eye he sees what he can only guess is one of Stiles' visions.

He is sitting in a classroom, at a desk. He looks out the window and sees his wolf form running towards him, through an empty courtyard. Derek knows he is an intimidating wolf, but holy hell, this warped version living in Stiles' mind is terrifying. Black as death, the size of a smart car with red eyes and teeth the size of a child's fingers. Maybe its extra terror was constituted by the "marination" of the energy. Maybe even the effects of whatever brackish mix of fear and alcohol was in Stiles' system that night. 

The terrible wolf leaps, making to crash through the window.

Derek snatches his hands away, shaking his head violently. His heart is sprinting through a fear that doesn't belong to him, making his ears ring. Taking pain is one thing, felt and recovered from, tolerable in a moment. Taking an emotion is... It's a weird feeling.

"Did it work? What did you see?" Stiles asks, breaking Deaton's rule.

"Stiles, give him a moment." Deaton is observing, his hands inching upwards as if to be prepared for Derek collapsing. 

Derek leans against the table, facing away from Stiles as he breathes through the rest of the emotion. Stiles had those nightmares for a month? And he didn't say anything? This... stupid kid. Derek could shake him for being stubborn. He wants to punch him for trying to deal with it himself. But mostly he wants to touch him again. Touch his soft skin and feel his heart and scold him for almost dying because of some misplaced fear of being a burden. Stupid, stupid.

"You... How do you feel?" Derek asks.

Stiles considers himself with a wiggle. "Better actually, yeah."

Deaton reinspects Stiles' back. "It seems to be working. Look." Stiles' wounds have effectively scabbed, the inflammation around them less angry.

"So what, he just has to do that a few times a week and I'll be all better?"

"I'm hoping so," the vet says optimistically, while re-bandaging his back with a large, clean gauze.

"Woohoo!" Stiles crows, grinning a crooked grin. Derek hands him his shirt as he sits up from the table, and he must be staring because Stiles asks, "What? You look miserable."

"You're a moron," Derek deadpans, feeling very relaxed for the first time in awhile.

Stiles blinks and opens his mouth to counter, before his entire expression changes too quickly, his mind shifting. "Hey Deaton, we need another answer. Why did Derek lose his wolf marbles in the first place?"

Right on cue, Deaton plucks a decrepit book from a shelf and flips through it. "I actually gave it some thought, and came up with a few solutions. One of them is righhht, ah," he points to a page in the book.

"Is that wolfsbane?" Stiles asks.

"It is a type of it, yes. This one," he taps the picture of the orange flower on the page, "is not fatal as most wolfsbane is. It causes a wolf to shift within minutes, and strangely It's more of a dissociative hallucinogen, rather than a poison. It blocks signals to the conscious mind, distorting perceptions of a wolf's sight and sound, producing uncontrollable feelings of violence. It makes you to feel detached from yourself. You can watch yourself moving, but you can't control your body. The other common side effect is memory loss."

Stiles holds up a hand. "So what you're saying is... It's a weird type of werewolf drug that makes you go crazy."

"In essence, yes."

"I _knew_ it! Ha!" Stiles wrinkles his nose in a weird little sneer.

"No," Derek reaches to pinch Stiles' nose but he ducks away.

Deaton continues. "But seeing as this is a wolfsbane that has not been seen for the past three centuries, I have no idea how this particular sub-species could have gotten into your system, Derek."

Stiles deflates. "Oh. Then what's the other solution?"

"You might not like me being so open with this, Derek, but the problem could very well be related to you anchor. Have you had any issue with previous full moons?"

Now it's the their turn to scrutinize Derek. "No," Derek answers honestly. He hadn't.

With that, Deaton rubs his chin and concludes that their problem remains open-ended. He tells them he will continue to research, but advises Derek to be careful on the next full moon. In a more amicable tone, he reiterates their new healing schedule and procedure, with their promise to keep him updated. It's two steps forward and one step back, so Derek won't complain.

"Actually Derek, could I speak to you alone for a moment?" Deaton asks as the two boys are leaving, hinting that Stiles shouldn't stick around.

"Sure." Derek turns to Stiles. "Go. Wait for me if you need help."

Stiles groans. "Werewolf den mother." He leaves, the door catching him on the way out. He was probably going to need help getting in his car again.

Deaton gives Derek no choice but to make direct eye contact. "I know you are new at this specific action, but I'm sure you know you must be careful when you're extracting Stiles' nightmares. Be sure that when you do so, _feel_ for them specifically. If you are not focused, you could end up taking other things from him."

"I know that. You mean like other memories?" Derek asks.

"Yes. Then again, you'd have to be focused on taking those specific memories as well. I think if you happen to linger in that state, you may accidentally see other things. Like dreams, thoughts, or other private things without necessarily taking them away. The connection can be very deep."

Derek blinks, a small revelation lighting his mind like the flick of a lighter. "Are you saying I could read his mind when I do this?"

Deaton tilts his head, smiling a wry smile. His words are a warning, confirming Derek's guess. "Just make sure you don't go searching for other things. And don't over-do it."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so who wants to know where that burrito ended up? Don't worry, there's a bonus burrito story! It's chapter 6 in the chapter index, so skip to it or read your way there, it's up to you, and there are no spoilers so don't worry! Be happy c:


	5. Getting Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapta five! I didn't mean to make you wait so long... Please ignore the beginning where I choked on plot and got back to what was important: Sterek. This is pretty much a pointless chapter, just fluffy stuff. Enjoy [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0RvPYRRRbE) song that doesn't fit but that's okay because no one really cares.
> 
>  ****UPDATE | 2017****  
>  But apparently _I_ care because here I am, tending to my fic as a weary farmer would tend to their field of soybeans. Or something. I erased the beginning plot-hole for us. I added a bit more depth to the healing process too. I'm really tired and questioning this decision...

 

Since the vet visit, it's been two days, today being Sunday, and Derek sits at the table eating Cora's Goldfish crackers. He imagines a Goldfish is Peter and grinds it between his teeth. He checks his phone: 9:42. Most of the day has passed and Stiles hasn't messaged him. Before leaving the vet's, they plugged their numbers into each other's phones. They agreed that Stiles would be the one to notify him when he was free, seeing as Stiles was sort of the one who had the leverage. Derek had made those scars, now it's responsibility to erase them. And Derek will do it, even if letting Stiles be the one to call the shots gives him the mild sense of "ugh".

Being honest, Derek has checked his phone about thirty times each hour today, waiting for Stiles to message him.

"Take it off silent," Cora had suggested earlier, as they matched each other for push-ups in the middle of the living area. Derek said he didn't like when his phone made noises. Not that he got many text messages. Mostly emails.

Derek unlocks his phone now and starts to type out a message to Stiles stating that he is headed over regardless, when a message from Stiles stops his fingers.

" _Sry its late but my dad just went to bed. Ill be in my room just come thru the window. BE QUIET_."

Like Derek is going to knock on the front door. Maybe he should. " _On my way_." He texts, relieved he doesn't have to hunt Stiles down, but irritated all the same. He gets up and grabs a handful of Goldfish for the road.

"Going somewhere?" Peter asks, reading a book on Derek's couch. Why he isn't at home, on his own couch, with his own feet on his own coffee table, is a mystery.

"Yeah, out."

"Okay. If you go to the store and they're having a sale on common sense or priorities, you should pick some up."

Peter loves to poke fun at Derek for this development, so much so that Derek regrets saying anything about it. He has to remind himself that Peter had his heart and soul burned out of his body. Twice. Derek flings his handful of crackers at Peter anyway.

"Thanks, at least these things can smile back." Peter quips.

"Hilarious," Derek says without humor and slams the door. He begins his trek to Stiles' house on foot, needing a run to clear his head.

 

_________

 

Derek's body feels warm and limber from the run when he stops in front of the Stilinski house, wondering which window is Stiles'. Derek has only been here once or twice, but he guesses it's the only one with a light on. He walks across the lawn, scales up the house quickly and peeks the through the window to make sure the room belongs to Stiles. He vaguely realizes that some guy dressed in dark colors, crouched on a roof and peeking through a window probably looks like a good reason to call the police. Good thing this is the Sheriff's house.

Thankfully, it's Stiles' room and not the Sheriff's. Stiles is sitting right by the window on his computer and when Derek's head breaches the window Stiles jumps, almost falling out of his computer chair. He recovers and slides the window open.

"Cheese n' crust dude, you could've texted me that you were here!" Stiles whisper-shouts.

Derek slips through the window easily, shutting it softly behind him. "Well, sorry. Maybe you should've messaged me earlier." He whisper-scolds.

"Well sorry, I have a life. Did you figure anything out about the whole wolf-attack thing?" Stiles whisper-asks.

Derek leans against the wall. "No. Peter was no help either."

"Ah. Gotcha. I got nothing. Except, I still really hate your uncle." Stiles takes a drink from the Pepsi on his desk.

"Hey, me too."

Stiles fiddles with the blue bottle cap as he speaks. "So, you think it's an anchor thing? Not to like, pry. I hate when people pry."

"Pretty much," Derek says, both an answer and a period.

"Okay. Not wanting to talk about it. I get that."

Stiles turns quiet and Derek looks around his room from where he stands. Blue walls covered with posters of things Stiles must like, carpet floor obscured by shoes, clothes and miscellaneous odds and ends. How does Stiles even get dressed when most of his clothes are on the floor? There's a box of files conspicuously labeled SHERIFF STATION halfway tucked under his bed. Wonder if his dad knows about that.

"Your room is a mess," Derek states.

"Gee, I'm sorry I didn't tidy up for you, maybe it's because I have a damn _peg_ for a leg like a freaking pirate. Do you know how it feels when I accidentally drop something now? My life gets a bit darker each time--"

Derek holds up his hand. "I get it. How have you been holding up?"

"With crutches," Stiles replies, not missing a beat.

Derek raises an eyebrow.

"C'mon, admit it, that was pretty good."

Derek just stares at him, waiting patiently.

Stiles huffs, defeated. "I actually didn't see anything yesterday. At all. So that's great. I guess it's actually working." He tries flipping the bottle cap like a coin but it sails across the room. "But today I almost shit my pants watching TV."

"What did you see?" Derek asks, pushing off the wall to retrieve the cap from inside a shoe. Nice shot.

"Trump giving a speech. Dear God it was awful. My eyes actually wanted to melt. Then I couldn't reach the remote."

Derek closes his eyes and counts to ten.

"Oh come on that was good too! If Scott was here, he'd laugh, he's a good bro. You know what your problem is?"

Derek snatches the soda bottle away and screws the lid on too tight. "That I might accidentally kill you tonight and in the morning your dad will have to find the pieces of your corpse scattered around your room?"

Stiles blinks. "Wow that was descriptive, thanks for the police report. No, your problem is that you need to laugh. Have fun, crack a joke that doesn't have anything to do with dismemberment. That's why you're forever going through your life looking like the human version of the grumpy cat. Not a good thing." He pokes Derek's knee.

"I have fun." Derek says, just a hair away from the being on the defensive.

"Oh yeah?" Shit. There's a challenge written all over Stile's face. Stiles folds his hands primly. "Enlighten me. How does one such as yourself engage in the art of 'fun'? No really, I wanna know. I'll wait."

Derek gears up to answer, but, nothing comes. So he circumvents. "If you haven't noticed, none of us have really had the time in the past three years to have any fun."

Stiles pouts his lips. "Okay, I'll give you that. But come on. Things have been settling down. No Alpha pack, no Kanimas, no AWOL hunters, no Darach, no berserker freaks, no weird ghost cowboys, I haven't been _possessed_ ," Stiles is counting these creatures off on his fingers as he speaks. "Still sorry about that one, by the way. And you know what gets me? No aliens. Yet. Which at this point, I'd be grateful and relieved by. Some little green dude ready to get his probe on? I can handle--"

Derek sighs but it's more of a growl. "Stiles, I'm not in the mood. So please shut the hell up. Or that police report is going to get more descriptive. And literal."

Stiles holds his hands up. "Fine, fine. I'll quit. Not my fault you can't recognize good humor." He swings around in his chair to face the computer, knocking his cast and groaning.

They stay quiet, staring at the computer screen. Stiles occasionally taps the keys or bounces his leg. Derek wanted him to shut up, but now that they aren't talking the silence feels weird.

"What are you working on?" Derek asks gruffly, trying to restore the conversation.

"Homework." Stiles replies, yawning. "Just a stupid paper about an economist. Y'know, something super imperative to my life right now."

"Yeah, I remember that. Homework, I mean," Derek agrees.

Stiles taps a pen to his chin. "Huh. Y'know sometimes I totally forget that you actually went to school. I keep imagining you going to a little werewolf school in the woods in a cave or something, where they taught you werewolf stuff. Like, Werewolf Elementary."

"Werewolf stuff," Derek repeats, imagining the humorous thought of a little _school_ for werewolves, nestled in the woods. Really? "And what would they teach there?" Derek asks, humoring him.

Stiles turns from the computer to Derek, homework forgotten. "Like how to be a werewolf, duh. Claws 101, Teeth Basics, How to be Scary, wolf kryptonites, full moon voodoo..." He trails off, counting the subjects on his fingers.

Derek considers it. "I don't think there's a How to be Scary class at the Werewolf Elementary I attended."

Stiles frowns thoughtfully. "Really? I figured you would've passed with flying colors, the teachers pet right?" Stiles pokes him again and draws back quickly.

The smile Derek has been trying to fight back almost wins outright. "What, I scare you?"

"Well... You used to." Stiles shrugs, trying in vain to open his soda bottle. "I guess you still do actually."

Derek sobers. "I'm sorry." He says quietly. "I really didn't want this to happen."

Stiles shakes his head, pushing at the air with a hand. "Don't worry about it bro-- I mean _dude_. Stuff happens, and I'm okay right? Yeah, I'm great," he says optimistically, trying to open the bottle with his teeth. "Thanks for doing this for me by the way," he slurs, mouth busy. "I thought you hated my guts but you seem pretty chill," he gives up and wrinkles his nose. "Would you be so kind?" Stiles asks, handing him the Pepsi.

Now Derek's smile wins the fight. "Weakling," he mutters, taking it and opening it in one twist. He groans when his hand comes away wet with Stiles' saliva.

"Thanks," Stiles says, innocently taking a sip. Derek rubs his hand on Stiles' pants. "Mature," Stiles notes. "Wait a sec, did you just smile? Well it was more of a literal upside down frown, but I saw it!" He claps once, victorious.

"Are you ready to do this or do you want to talk me to death?" Derek says shortly.

"Gee that was fleeting. Like the Halley's comet of friendliness." Stiles yawns again and and stretches. Derek notices the bags under his eyes and wonders if he was getting any sleep, so Derek asks.

"Uh, some nights..." Stiles rubs his temples. "I didn't get much last night, I had nightmares," he admits. Then he amends quickly, "Okay so how should we do this, do I need to lay down again?"

Derek isn't really sure, but Stiles likes to complicate things for him, so Derek tells him to lay down on the bed. Stiles stands using his desk for support, and pulls his shirt over his head. When his eyes connect with Derek's, his heart falters slightly.

"Dude do you have to stare at me?" Stiles whispers, wringing his shirt in his hands.

"Does it bother you?"

Stiles gapes, flustered. "Yes, actually it does."

"Good." Derek muses. He points to the bed. "Bed."

Stiles narrows his eyes and snorts. He hops to the bed on one foot and more or less falls on it face first. He turns his head to the side and looks up at Derek with amber eyes. "Ready," he announces.

Derek steps to the bed and peels away one of the bandages Dr. Deaton had given to Stiles. He scrutinizes Stiles' injury, tracing the edge of a long scab.

"I hope your hands are clean," Stiles remarks. Derek doesn't answer (because they aren't, whoops) and spreads his hands on Stiles' back from where he stands.

Just like the first time, he feels Stiles' body working under soft skin. His heart is beating a little faster. He looks at Stiles to see his eyes are closed. He's breathing deeply through his nose, as if he's trying to calm down. Derek realizes this is probably awkward with just the two of them alone in his bedroom. With the vet there to monitor, this felt clinical. Without him it feels, well, strangely intimate.

Derek doesn't warn him when he starts, just presses down a bit harder. Now that he knows what to expect, the trick is easier, but Deaton's warning rises to the surface of his mind. Derek doesn't even want to snoop in Stiles' brain, whatever thoughts or memories he might see would just have a punchline at the end of them.

This usurped vision is different from the first one. Suddenly there's the crunch of grass under Derek's feet, the first cue that his mind is now somewhere else. A clearing? No, the high school rec field. Just as suddenly, the field's flood lights all ignite at once with a sound that could be described as the darkness being sliced open. It's blinding. Derek puts a hand up to shield his face. With less of a glare, he's able to spot a dark shape slipping into the pool of light.

It's Derek's wolf form, yet, it too is a bit different from the first vision. The inky body looks more like a giant dog, not a wolf, as it lopes toward him. It's eyes are garnets, jaw already open and equally red with blood, tongue and teeth stained orange.

But the emotions are all the same.

The black dog is in the air, terrible mouth a foot away from Derek's face, when he can't take anymore.

Derek snatches his hands from Stiles' back and steps back from the bed, reeling. He steps on one of Stiles' treacherous shoes that has him reeling even further. If he wasn't just recovering from the emotional brain blast, he would not have ended up falling onto his back, while simultaneously bringing down part of a shelf with the arm that was grappling for balance. The carpet muffled the sound of Derek's fall, but it didn't muffle the rack of CDs clattering to the bottom of the shelf.

"Derek?" Stiles is sitting up, eyes wide.

Derek doesn't answer him. Not because he's staving off alien panic or embarrassed from falling (definitely not that), but because the sound of the Sheriff's footsteps are echoing down the hall.

"Stiles?" Stiles' dad asks from down the hall.

Stiles' eyes open wider, flicking between his door and Derek, still recovering on the floor. In some sort of silent concession, Derek swiftly rolls under the bed and Stiles sits up to hide his back just as the bedroom door opens.

"Stiles, you okay?" Stiles' dad asks.

"Geez, knock much?" Stiles gripes. He shifts on the bed and the mattress bows just over Derek's head.

"I've seen everything before, son." Derek can picture the look on the the father's face.

Stiles makes a sound, like a choked snort. "Hey! Things have, like, changed."

"I'm sure. And _hey_ , it's past eleven. Shouldn't you be going to bed soon? I don't care if you're already eighteen, you still live in my house."

"Yeah yeah, I'm just finishing this paper and I'll be buying my ticket for the snooze train."

"Good." The Sheriff steps over to the bed, his bare feet maybe a breath away from Derek. There's the sound of a kiss. "Love you. Go to bed."

"I love you too. I will. I swear!"

"Mhm, sure."

The door closes behind the Sheriff and only when a door shuts at the end of the hall does Derek roll out from under the bed. He sits up, still on the floor, and glances over at Stiles, who has a pillow clutched to his chest. "Snooze train?"

Stiles circles his hands in the air aggressively. "That's your takeaway? Nevermind. What was with that, are you okay?"

Derek rolls up to his feet. "I'm fine." Now. 

"Mhm, sure." Like father like son. "What did you see?"

"Whatever you've been seeing. Me, in the lacrosse field. Let me see your back."

Stiles huffs, and leans forward, holding a pillow. Derek leans in behind him to inspect his back, touching his skin gently. The wound has shrank a bit.

"Better?" Stiles asks into his pillow. The treatment must bring him relief: he looks half asleep now, his eyes drooping and his lips parted. His breathing is already slowing.

"Yeah." Derek checks the clock; it's already 11:24. It's been that long? "I'm gonna go now." Derek returns to the window and opens it quietly, sliding out feet first.

"Derek?" Stiles calls. He almost sounds like he had when he asked for Scott at the hospital. Small and breakable.

Derek stops his descent into the dark outside world and looks back at Stiles, now on his side in bed. "Yeah?"

"Thanks dude," Stiles smiles into the sheets, eyes crinkling.

Derek looks towards the night sky and smiles a bit himself. "Don't mention it, bro."

Derek hopes Stiles won't remember that. He hesitates between the warm light of this bedroom and the empty neighborhood for a second more. After a what feels like not long enough, Derek slips out of the window silently and falls back into his life. He starts his walk back home, looking back at the window just once, thinking maybe he should've closed it. More than the air of Stiles' room, Derek misses his car.

 

 

 

 


	6. Bonus Burrito Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was Friday and Coach Finstock was getting in his car to go home for the day. He was actually having a pretty good day, for once.  
> A short bonus chapter about Derek's burrito incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short bonus chapter (don't hurt me) about about Derek's burrito. Was anyone curious about where his beefy five layer burrito landed? I wanted to write this because I thought it'd be funny and I had the help of my best friend, so I hope this short story makes you laugh c: Chapter 7 (the real chapter six) is in the works!  
> [Here's](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2X_2IdybTV0) a song from Bobby's CD. Supernatural anyone? Ok.
> 
>  
> 
> ****UPDATE | 2017****
> 
>  
> 
> This is funny. I'm fucking funny. Thank you. I left this in past-tense because. Sorry, but Coach is a dick and I like writing him that way.

It was Friday and Coach Finstock was getting in his car to go home for the day. He unceremoniously dumped the binders of Econ student work in the passenger seat as he got in, silver whistle dangling from his neck. He still liked the old one better. But he'd had to buy a new one after some crazy red head girl claimed she'd "dropped it, oops" out of the bus window on the failed track meet a some time ago. God what a pain in the ass that was.

He clicked his seat belt and looked over at the binders. It looked like a lot to grade... Did he even have that many students? Eh. He'd probably just grade based on participation. Those morons could use a free A+. He wouldn't admit this during a faculty meeting or anything but he honestly didn't give a crooked cat's ass about teaching economics.

What he really cared about (loved, even) was coaching. It was his pride and joy, even though he should be coaching college. His team wasn't perfect and sure he was questioning if some of the players had mental disabilities (especially Greenberg) but it was his team and he would do whatever it took to become the best lacrosse team in Beacon Hills. Well, besides steroids or other things like that (he didn't want a team of a bunch of gorilla eaters). He even had a soft spot for his faithful bench-warmers. He _even_ felt bad for the little Stilinski jerk. Getting torn up by a freaking bear while hiking in the mountains? What luck. He'd figured a lily white skinned kid like that never left the house.

He started his drive home. It was nice and sunny after the blasted rain and he decided a day like this deserved good music. He picked out his favorite CD (a mix of classic rock) and cranked the volume. Hell yeah.

He was actually having a pretty good day, for once. There were donuts in the conference room this morning, Greenberg was absent, class was good and nobody did anything encumbering (except when Stillinski accidentally tripped Lahey with his busted leg in the aisle, that was funny as hell) and there'd been no dead bodies found tied to trees today. So yeah, it was turning out to be a great day.

That was, until he turned down Adams Street.

He took the same way home everyday: leave the parking lot to turn down Posey Road, follow it to Sharman Avenue, cut across Adams Street to get to Hoechlin (seriously what jackass named these streets anyway?), then O'Brien Avenue, where he lived.

But right as he halted at the stop sign on Adams, his CD started skipping. "Oh come on," he said, unhappy to have his jam session turned into some sort of punk ass remix that some young kid would listen to. Why the hell would anyone listen to that annoying _dubstep_ or whatever with no voices? He still couldn't figure that out. Kids were seriously troubled these days if they thought that the sound of a power ranger and a robot having sex on a DJ turntable was good music.

He glanced around (lingering at a stop sign was illegal, at least he thought it was) and when he saw no one around to honk at him (or arrest him), he retrieved his disc and examined it.

"Aha, only smudges," he polished it on his favorite white shirt. A shirt, which, has remained spotless all day. That, that is nothing but an act of God himself. He slid the CD back in its place and turned his attention back to the road like a good driver just as his windshield exploded.

It was like the Hulk punched through his passenger side windshield, glass bursting apart in  fragments. He closed his eyes involuntarily and screamed valiantly (it was either that or shit his pants). So when he opened his eyes ten whole seconds afterward, relieved that he wasn't dead, he was very discombobulated.

Besides pieces of glass scattered in the front cab of his Honda, there was... Beef. Everywhere. And was that... He cautiously touched the orange substance covering his passenger seat. Cheese? Come to think of it his whole car smelled like it. Beef and cheese.

He exited the car carefully, to inspect the damage. It was probably lucky that it (what the hell was it? Some sort of heavy artillery grade D beef grenade?) didn't detonate a few feet to the left or he would've lost his face.

He felt sticky. He looked down to see his white shirt stained orange with beef and cheese.

 _His favorite white shirt._  

"What the hell!" He shouted, waving his arms. And his day was going so well...

"Coach?"

Finstock froze. That voice. He'd know it anywhere. It was the voice his nightmares spoke to him with. He looked across the street to see the bane of his existence.

Greenberg.

There he stood with his idiotic face, holding something to his mouth. It was a... burrito.

A burrito. His car. His shirt.

The Coach snatched his whistle (a force of habit) and blew it harder than he'd ever blown it, possibly bursting a blood vessel.

"GREENBERRRRRRRG!!"


	7. Hanging Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what? Fluff chapter! My brain isn't working lately so this is all I got. Any mistakes are my fault I fell a lot as a child. Enjoy~  
> Would you like a a nice song to with your fluff? [Tah-dah!](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZwGWRrIlz68)
> 
> ****UPDATE | 2017****  
>  Oh, fly, fly you beautiful baby! I'm still at it. I'm adding and subtracting a few bits and pieces here and there at my own discretion (and taking this too seriously), so I hope any old readers will not be upset. Any new readers will... never know.
> 
> WARNINGS: anxiety mentions, mild dissociation?

It's Tuesday morning and Stiles answers the front door in his pajama pants.

“Hey there,” Stiles says, leaning on the door frame like a dork. Derek is starting to feel like one of those nurses that do house-calls. Jesus.

“Well, are you going to invite me in or did you just want to get me up at the crack of dawn?” Derek says, irked and very much out of place on the front porch. Derek had been expecting this little visit much later in the day, so he’d made the mistake of working until falling asleep around four in the morning. Now it's 8:23 in the morning and he is still wearing yesterday’s clothes and running on zero coffee. Although, he feels a little better seeing Stiles in his holey Star Wars pajama pants.

“What are you, a vampire?” Stiles mocks. 

Derek feints a strike at him like he’s done many times before and it still gives the desired effect. Stiles jumps, opening the door as wide as it can go and ducks behind it, like Derek is a scary moose who needs a lot of room.

Stiles looks up and down the street after Derek comes in, paranoid someone is watching. “Where's your car?”

“I ran,” Derek replies, standing in the middle of the foyer and looking at the surrounding decor. The running helped wake him up, and driving isn't smart when he can't keep his eyes open. “Why aren't you at school?”

“No wonder your muscles have muscles. Um, sort of the same reason why you're here right now. My dad said I was flipping my waffles at five this morning and he had to calm me down. But he’s used to me having night terrors from when I was a kid, so it’s fine. He made me stay home today, so I’m not complaining, y’know?”

“Sure,” is all Derek can say that isn't meant to be an insult to Stiles’ apparently dysfunctional concept of what “fine” means. Then again, Derek is one to talk. Derek could smell the anxiety on him as soon as the door opened. The scent is almost that of excitement, like sugar, but burnt beyond the point of being pleasant. Stiles usually only has the just faintest scent of it.

“Mhm,” Stiles yawns and stretches his arms above his head high enough for his soft grey shirt to reveal part of his stomach. He does that annoying thing where you groan in a weird way while you stretch, like you need to stretch your vocal chords as well as your muscles. Derek needs to do the same. “Well dude I’m going to eat breakfast, so yeah.” Stiles hobbles away to wherever the kitchen must be, expecting Derek to follow.

“You're getting better at those,” Derek notices. Stiles is decidedly clumsy enough already without adding two crutches to the equation.

“I think I'm going pro, is this a sport? Hey you know what,” he stops abruptly to spin around into Derek, who almost plows him over. “Oof, sorry. Geez don’t make that face I said sorry. Anyway when I went to the doctor yesterday for my check up, he was amazed and said my leg was healing faster than normal. So what if all this,” he waves his hands in the air to apparently depict what he means, “is helping my leg heal too? I mean, you’re sucking a brain flu out of my head, I don’t think it’s that crazy of a possibility, right?”

Derek hadn’t thought of that. “Only an Alpha can heal, and even then it takes a while, like Deaton said. But yeah it’s possible, you're right."

“Aha, I’m a genius,” Stiles says contentedly, placing a hand on his chest. Derek gives him a _yeah sure you are_ look.

“Oh and by the way.” Stiles shuffles closer and glares at Derek. "Remember that burrito I so graciously bought for you then you threw off the face of the earth? Coach told us yesterday that a _burrito_ of all things violently wrecked his car and almost killed him. But you're lucky he wasn’t someone else, like some rogue hunter? Or the FBI? How crappy would it be to get hunted down like a dog over a stupid burrito, huh?” He scolds, poking Derek in the sternum.

Stiles is right. But Derek isn’t going to say it out loud and give him the satisfaction. Stiles takes his silence at its value and turns back around to go to the kitchen. “Sour wolf...” Stiles mumbles.

Derek looks around the kitchen. He’s somehow never been in it after these three exciting years, just Stiles’ room. It's just an ordinary kitchen with regular kitchen stuff, and a bar to sit at. He makes his impression on one of the bar stools and leans onto the counter, watching Stiles make himself some cereal.

“Do you want anything to eat?” Stiles offers while finding a spoon in the clean dishwasher.

“No,” Derek lies. He hasn’t eaten since last night, but accepting food from Stiles is just weird. He'd prefer coffee anyway. Asking to brew a pot of coffee would be even weirder.

“You sure?” Stiles comes to the counter and stands right across from Derek, eating his cereal with a large spoon. It looks like chocolate Chex. Oh. Chocolate. “You know,” Stiles crunches, “I’ve never seen you eat. Do you eat little forest animals like rabbits and mountain lions? I guess that would also explain your muscles, all that raw protein, damn.” He shakes his head and spoons more cereal into his mouth.

Wow. “I feel like I shouldn't need to answer that by now.”

“So, you do? I mean, I have no proof of you eating any kind of A Food.”

Derek gives him what has become the usual frown.

“ _Cereal_ ,” Stiles taunts Derek, waving a spoon of it in his face. Milk is dripping from his mouth.

Derek caves only out of sheer exhaustion and silently gets up to get a bowl of cereal. “Oh, one more thing,” Derek says brightly while returning to his seat. He pulls Stiles’ shirt collar up and wipes the milk dribbling down his chin. “You eat like a cow."

“Moo.” Stiles wrinkles his nose indignantly, a reflexive thing.

“Why do you do that?” Derek asks.

“Do what exactly?” Stiles asks, caught off guard.

Derek shakes his head and resumes eating. “Nevermind.”

“God I hate when you do that.”

“Do what?” Derek asks innocently, spooning more cereal in his mouth.

Stiles actually twitches a bit, mouth open in frustration. He glares at Derek and slurps the milk from his bowl. “Moo!”

Derek finishes soon after, having been hungrier than he'd thought, and takes both of their bowls to the sink. “Thanks,” he says, returning to his perch.

“Whatever,” Stiles mumbles, opening a cabinet and retrieving a prescription bottle. He takes a pill (Adderall, Derek knows) with water from the sink and gulps. “So you wanna do this now?”

“Whenever you're ready, but I'm ready now,” Derek says lazily, inspecting his fingernails. The food is making his body heavier, dangerously teetering over the open well of sleep. Best to get this done with before Stiles gets preoccupied with something else first.

Stiles says now would be okay, so they decide the couch is a good spot for it. Stiles sits at one end of it, removing his shirt quickly and laying down without looking at Derek. His self-consciousness has Derek shaking his head. Derek kneels down beside him, assuming the position.

“Start your engines,” Stiles murmurs into the cushions.

Derek suppresses a groan (or maybe a yawn) and presses his hands firmer than needed onto Stiles’ back.

This time Derek is in Stiles' Jeep, in the middle of the road. Right in front of him in the middle of the empty road, is the Wolf. This Wolf is more of a corporeal shadow, made of writhing black smoke. It's moving closer to the vehicle, and Derek tries to turn the engine, pump the pedals and drive away but the old Jeep is just dead. Derek's tired brain is weakening, the world darkening at the edges. The Wolf is on the hood, the windshield is cracking from an unseen force. The doors are sealed, he can't force them open. Panic is crawling up Derek's throat when vision breaks and the dark edges eat up the rest of the frame.

And he's adrift in the darkness. The panic ebbs, eaten up by the vastness. Derek has a similar memory from childhood, of exploring in a cave so deep that not even his wolf eyes could see. It isn't an unkind void, more like... A connection. Derek can only feel the space where the pads of his hands connect with Stiles' back. The only sound is Stiles. His breathing, his heart beating, and the rest of his body maintaining its balance, echoing all around. Where is he?

Derek opens his eyes. Oh. He's in Stiles' house, still knelt on the floor. His hands are still on Stiles. He drags them away and sits back on his butt. The wounds have healed again by a fraction, scabs hardening. "Done," he says.

“Awesome, I’m feeling so much better.” Stiles sits up slowly and stretches again, arching his back. He looks at Derek. He _is_ looking better, even smells better. "You, on the other hand, look terrible."

Derek can't help it, his eyes have shut. There was no residual panic this time, but another layer of heaviness has settled over him like a handmade quilt. The first and second rounds of this had left their marks, but it was a manageable weight, until now. "Thanks."

Stiles doesn't speak for a beat. Then he says, "You feel the emotion when you take it, don't you? Just like pain. You feel what I feel."

No reason to lie. "Yes." Derek opens his eyes to see Stiles staring down at him. Is it concern? Anger? Derek is too tired to decipher it.

"What does it... feel like?"

Derek's words are clipped. "Like taking pain. I'm just tired today, Stiles."

Stiles works his jaw and scoffs. "Sure." Then, remembering his nudity, looks around for his shirt. “Uh, where’s my shirt?” Stiles looks around the couch before Derek realizes he's sat on it. He stands up and shakes it out before tossing it to Stiles. “Gee thanks,” Stiles says, putting it back on.

Derek stands, bids him farewell and starts to leave.“Okay well, I’m going to leave. See you Thursday."

“Hey-- wait!” Stiles calls, head popping through his shirt collar.

Derek waits. “What?”

“Well, um, I just thought that maybe you, y’know if you're not doing anything today and you're tired, you don’t have to, God knows I don’t really care and all--”

“You want to take me to dinner?” Derek deadpans.

Stiles flounders like a goldfish on a hot sidewalk. “No! And I don’t have the money right now! Although it would be nice, I doubt you go to dinner often.”

Derek growls. “Stiles. What is it?”

Stiles lowers his head apprehensively, feigning disinterest. “I just thought that maybe you could like, I dunno, stay here awhile? Take a nap? Unless you're all busy with all your werewolf business or whatever.” His voice wavers.

“I'm a landlord.” Derek sighs, pulling off disinterested much better than Stiles, and sits down in an armchair. Why Stiles would want to spend more time with him is right up there with mysterious, but Derek finds himself considering it. His melting brain might not be such a reliable agenda, but he's sure he has something to do today. Besides sleep in (which had failed) and work out. But this chair is nice. It's soft and comfortable and smells like... Stiles' dad? Either way he needs to get one for the loft, even if it ruins the ambiance. “Why do you want to hang out?”

“I uh, I just really didn’t want to be bored out of my mind all day.” Stiles lies, plain as day. The truth is in Stiles' pounding heart and his hands, unable to keep them from fiddling with each other. He's worried about having another hallucination.

So Derek doesn't call him out on it. He says sure.

“Wow, really?” Stiles asks, eyebrows perking up. “I mean, only if you want."

“Don't need you bored out of your mind all day. Isn’t that what T.V. is for?” Derek asks, dry.

“Hey that’s a great idea,” Stiles decides. He digs a remote out from under the couch cushions and turns the T.V. on. “What do you like to watch?”

“I don’t care,” Derek yawns. Actually he hasn’t properly watched television in almost 8 years, but admitting that to Stiles will probably spark some sort of pop culture shit storm that he can't and won't handle right now.

“Suit yourself bro, I have to catch up on a few episodes of Drag Race I recorded.”

Derek rests his head on the back of the chair and closes his eyes, deciding to take a nap and skip on whatever show Stiles wants to watch. It takes only a few minutes before he feels sleep tugging him under. He's one of those people who can fall asleep easily. Sleep is an escape.

“Hey no way, are you asleep?” Stiles whispers.

Derek doesn't respond. Stiles will attack if he even moves.

“Gee some fun you are,” Stiles mutters, sounding disappointed. He huffs a sigh and fidgets on the couch before being quiet.

Derek listens to the slow metronome of Stiles’ breath and the drabble of a T.V. program that sounds nothing like a drag car race as he slips into sleep.

 

_________________

  


“Derrrek...”

Someone is calling him.

“C’mon Derek, get up.”

Someone is shaking him.

“Wake up you big dumb wolf!”

Someone wants to get their throat ripped out. As more of a reflex than anything, Derek grabs the arm shaking him and holds it in an iron grip. He opens his eyes to come face to face with Stiles.

Stiles jumps. “Whoa! Okay okay, I’m sorry! You're a big smart wolf now let go!” He squirms until Derek releases him. “Sheesh,” Stiles retreats to the couch. “You aren’t exactly a sleeping beauty are you? Good thing I didn't kiss you or you would’ve bit my lips off.” He touches his lips reassuringly.

Derek sits up. Rain is coming down outside and the T.V. is off. “What time is it?” His voice is more of a creak.

“1:45,” Stiles says, checking his phone. You slept through eight episodes of Drag Race.”

Derek watches the rain outside and stretches. He feels... much better, more alive. Maybe he really just needed the nap.

“Yeah, you looked like you needed some sleep so I didn't wake you up. But also because I was afraid to do so,” Stiles adds, rubbing a fresh pink mark on his forearm.

“Sorry.”

“Sure you are. You want anything to eat?” Stiles asks, hopping into the kitchen crutch-less to rummage through the cabinets. His back is turned so he doesn't see Derek staring at him.

"Hum..." Stiles hums, looking through the fridge. "Ah, here we go." He opens a drawer to find some cheese and ham. "Do you like grilled cheese with ha--" He turns around to find Derek in elbow-bumping distance and flinches like he's been electrocuted.

"Mother _father_!" he groans, "give me a little warning next time you teleport, m'kay? Thank you."

"Sure. Do you..." Derek watches Stiles hop around the kitchen without his crutches, gathering what he needs to cook. "Need any help?"

"Huh? Oh," Stiles makes a face and pushes the offer away with his hand, "nah I got this." He determinedly hops over to the stove and put his frying pan on it. He constructs two sandwiches and commences cooking. Derek leans against the island behind him, making sure he doesn't spontaneously combust.

"So uh..." Stiles leans against the stove to face Derek. "How're you?"

"Small talk?"

"Yeeah, nevermind then," Stiles stares off into space, mind working. His struggle to find something to talk about is funny in itself. He gives up and turns around to check the food. It smells good.

"Oh whoops, I need a spatula," Stiles says, hopping to another drawer. On Derek's cue, Stiles slips on the tile and falls backwards. Derek reaches down quickly and catches him by the shoulders.

Derek looks down at him as he holds him a few feet above the floor."I thought you got this?" Derek asks, pulling a pitying face.

Stiles’ eyes are wide with surprise before narrowing. "Wolf reflexes," he mutters.

Derek lays him down on the ground and pats his head, decommissioning him. "Yeah." He finds a spatula and finishes cooking while Stiles looms on the floor below him like a disgruntled area rug.

Once cooking is finished, Stiles gets up, they eat and Stiles shows him a picture of grumpy cat, it's 2:22.

"Dude, this is amazing I was right, you look just like the grumpy cat!" Stiles is amazed.

"Yeah, not really."

"But come on! Look at it again."

They fire empty threats back and forth until Stiles gets a call from his dad, who is going to be home soon to check on him despite Stiles' protesting. After checking the missed calls on his phone, Derek says it's time for him to go attend to some “werewolf business”, which isn't totally true. He just doesn't want to get too attached to all of this.

“This was actually fun,” Stiles states, pleased. It's still raining lightly and Stiles tries to offer Derek a yellow umbrella, but Derek just shakes his head.

Derek shrugs. “Not the best party I’ve been to but pretty good. Will you just promise to be careful and not do stupid shit?

Stiles snorts. “When do I ever--” Derek cuts him off with a glare. “Right… Sure. Do you wanna make it official and pinkie promise too?” Stiles jokes.

“Actually, yeah I do,” Derek decides, holding out his pinkie.

Stiles looks at him incredulously before hooking his pinkie into Derek’s. “I promise to not do dumb shit because my second werewolf mommy will kill me if I do.”

Derek squeezes his pinkie almost hard enough to break it, earning a yelp.

Stiles shakes his hand out like there's a flesh eating virus on it. “Do you just like hurting me?”

“Sometimes. But that was so you’d remember your promise.”

Stiles winces. “Gee how thoughtful.”

Derek shrugs. He waves once and walks down the front porch steps and across the street. The air is sweet and the rain is cool on his bare arms. He really does feel more awake than he has in weeks.

“See ya grumpy cat!” Stiles calls.

Derek doesn’t need to turn around to hear the door slam and imagine Stiles hiding behind it, watching him walk away while laughing his ass off.

 

 

 


	8. Liar liar, situation dire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! Any mistakes are my own. Enjoy c:  
> [Song. Yeah. I was cheap.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yWcGtLblBxs)
> 
>  ****UPDATE 2017****  
>  *piercing inhalation* I just finished part one of s6. Remember: if a note doesn't say update above it, it's an old note from 2013. Haha. Yeah. Haha.  
> I remember when I first wrote this, for some reason Derek was just nasty toward Isaac. So much so that a reader commented saying that it was upsetting. I agree. Why did I do that? I love my beautiful boy.

"Derek, did you eat my Goldfish?" Cora asks Wednesday morning, shaking her half empty bag of crackers. 

"No," Derek replies, sitting on his bed answering emails. As a born wolf, Derek has had the time to craft his lying skills. No heart falters, no off scents. His only tell might be just how stable his lies are. "I saw Peter eating them."

He's also great at lying to himself, telling himself that he does not want to hang out with Stiles. He is not thinking about it, he is not checking his phone right now for a text from him, and he definitely does _NOT_ look like that ugly cat.

"Dammit Peter," Cora slams the kitchen cabinet, preferring to blame Peter over Derek even if she knows Derek is lying or not. That's similarities they share: resentment towards their uncle, and slamming stuff when their anger calls for a good slamming. "He always eats my food," she says unhappily, coming to lay by Derek on his bed and sulk.

Maybe it's an territorial wolf thing or a personality thing but Derek hates, _hates_ when anyone besides himself uses his bed. His bed is his territory. Cora is his only exception, being his younger sister, one of his few blood relatives left. Once Derek had found Isaac napping in his bed and politely yet firmly rolled him out of it. Something that Scott would’ve knocked a few brownie points off Derek’s vest for. Derek really has to remind himself to be less... Aggressive, some days.

"You wanna go to the store?" Derek asks his sister.

She sits up and looks at him skeptically. "Serious?" 

She knows he dislikes going to the store. To him it feels so tedious. Like does he really need to go to the store and _shop_ when Postmates exists now? But he needs a distraction. All he can look forward to is going to Stiles' tomorrow night. And he needs to not let this new fun consume him. To _not_ be in that house, _not_ mess with Stiles and _not_ have a relatively normal conversation that has nothing to do with any of his excuse for a life or the impending threats knocking at the door. Even if they talk about that anyway, it feels less... bad. But Derek maybe does really like that chair.

"Sure, Cora. I need a distraction anyway. Come on, we'll go right now."

Cora's lip quirks up in a half smile and she says teasingly, "If you say so, Derbear."

 

___________

 

"What kind do you want?" Cora asks, reaching to grab some Goldfish from the Target grocery department shelf.

"Huh? Oh uh, any. Get every flavor if you want." He doesn't care what she buys, they have all the money they might ever need from their inheritance. Too bad it couldn't help them solve anything or save anyone. They say money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy things that make you happy. Like Goldfish crackers or possibly a Camaro.

"No thanks, I only like rainbow anyways." Cora dumps a dozen  bags in the cart and pushes it down the aisle on its squeaky wheels. Derek refused to push it. "I'll hide them I guess, so uncle Peter can't get them."

"Sounds good," Derek notes, walking alongside her. "What else should we get?"

They meander around the grocery, Derek realizing that he hasn't been grocery shopping with family since... He can't even remember the last time, but he remembers going with his mother sometimes. He always complained back then although he secretly liked it. He misses it now. He says some of this to Cora, as she picks through the deli section for a sandwich.

"I remember shopping with Mom, and Laura. Mom liked to sit me in a cart because I would explore. One time I ran away in the old Kmart and hid in a men's pants rack. Until mom found me in like half a minute. Laura was mad, but mom wasn't."

"I bet." All of the Hales are inherently (were) a bit rough around the edges, but Laura had the meanest streak.

"You're a lot like mom," Cora rather perceives than states.

Though the words are small a drop in a placid lake, the ripples still carry. "You think so?"

"Yeah. You can lead. And you've got the same 'outward calm' thing going on."

"Hm. I didn't always." Rather than delving the darker years of his struggle to assume power and surround himself with a fledgling pack that didn't have a snowball's chance in hell and have a breakdown in the middle of the supermarket, Derek scrutinizes the coffee section. Concentrated espresso sounds fun. 

"And you mom everyone," Cora says, grabbing a flavored coffee.

"I 'mom' everyone?"

"Yeah, Your'e a big mom. Hovering, protecting, grossly compassionate..." Cora grins.

Derek sighs. "I guess that makes you dad. Emotionally distant, usually hard to find, acerbic..."

Cora laughs. "Ohh, acerbic? Nice word. Gonna retake your SATs?"

"Might."

The grocery is much different now, being with Cora. It's an entire world away from the previous one they knew. But it's good. They joke back and forth, finding weird things they haven't seen before. Like sunflower seed butter or watermelon flavored oreos, both of which Cora immediately puts into the cart. Mutual meat lovers, they spend ten minutes in the butchery, Derek going for turkey sausage. Cora gets interested in the "ethnic" section, having thrived on the food of South America during her nearly six year stint there. She decides she wants to make Derek whatever arepas are. Which leads them to the produce section, where Cora is looking through plantains and is Derek is looking at a dragonfruit when his phone vibrates. He takes it out of his pocket to see a text from Stiles.

_Help come now_

Derek texts back, _What is it?_

Derek waits two minutes while watching Cora fill a bag with plantains, then several different apples, but there's no reply. After texting Stiles for just a few days Derek knows that he always replies within the minute. He's weird like that.

"Cora I have to go," Derek says, urgency twisting his stomach.

"Why, what's wrong?" Cora's eyebrows knit as she ties the bag of apples closed.

"It's Stiles. Something's wrong and he needs me at the school."

Cora knows what he means by “wrong”. "But yesterday, didn't you--"

"Yeah, I did," Derek says across her hastily. He hands her his car keys and wallet. He can't leave her here without the car or the money. "I'll be at the loft later. I'm sorry," he adds.

"No problem, hurry up," she frowns. It isn't irritation, it's concern. She likes Stiles as much as they all do, but won't admit it.

"I will," Derek promises.

The school is almost too conveniently maybe two blocks away from the store, so it won't take him more than five minutes to get there on foot. The problem is that he has no idea where Stiles will be once he gets there. The idea of Stiles having a hallucination, afraid and alone somewhere, pushes Derek through the automatic doors and out of the parking lot in a sprint that would be considered Olympic.

Sneaking through one of the back entrances to the school, Derek has ruled out most of the places Stiles won't be and heads to one of his best bets: the locker room. He just hopes his hunch is right. He's also suddenly grateful to have gone to school here, to be familiar with the place.

Derek listens at each bathroom door as he passes on fast feet, hearing nothing out of the ordinary, except maybe a little questionable. Rounding the corner of the hallway that leads to the gym, his shoes squeak and Stiles' scent springs between the multitude of other odors in the building, like sweat and floor cleaner. Derek picks up the sound of his breath next, rapid and fractured. Derek bounds to the locker room and Stiles' heart becomes audible, beating too fast. All of it sharpens the closer he gets, like turning up the volume on a radio.

Derek all but bursts through the doors of the locker room, senses on high alert as he scopes the dimness. "Stiles? Where are you?"

"He...here..."

Derek finds Stiles behind a row of lockers, half cowering on the floor, struggling for breath. Derek kneels down next to Stiles with his hands on the gritty floor, trying to get a good look at him. Derek is apprehensive to touch him, for fear of making whatever this is worse. Or worse, scaring him again like at the hospital.

Stiles notices Derek, and tilts his head up to look at him. Stiles' face is pained, there are lines where there shouldn't be, fear in his eyes. Stiles winces and drops his head again, gasping.

Stiles isn't scared of Derek, but Derek's skin is prickling. "Stiles, is this a vision? Stiles--"

Stiles moves, putting his hand over Derek's. "I can't, I can’t breathe--" he pants, digging his clammy fingers into Derek's hand.

Derek snaps out of his own apprehension and hooks his arms under Stiles's shoulders, lifting him up to his feet. He more or less pins Stiles against the cool metal of the lockers to keep him upright. Derek slides his hands underneath Stiles' shirt, pressing on his wound. Stiles’ whole body is just a clamor, Stiles himself bracing himself against the lockers with the help of Derek’s body.

Submerging into Stiles' psyche, Derek fishes out the hallucination quickly, surprisingly without much of a recoil. What catches Derek off guard is the supercharged stampede of adrenaline, literally pulsing through Stiles. More specifically, a panic attack.

Because Derek paid attention in anatomy class, he knows what makes a panic attack. Adrenal glands dumping an excess amount of adrenaline into the bloodstream. Under a normal circumstance where adrenaline is released, this would be all well and good because a person might need that surge of energy to “fight or flight” in a dangerous situation, like being chased by a werewolf. But when all of that energy is produced for no specific reason and left to run wild through the body with no release, it can make person feel like they’re dying. Derek even wrote a paper on it. The knowledge came in handy when he suffered from them a few years after, well.

Derek doesn’t even think about it before he tries to liberate the anxiety, just hoping it'll work the same way. The panic is different in structure from anything he's taken before, and takes him a few tries before he can draw it out. It works. Through his hands he feels Stiles’ heart slow into a walk, his lungs working at their normal speed, if a little shallow. As Stiles calms, Derek floats in that same infinite cave space, calming himself. A silence sinks into the atmosphere, so it's almost like someone speaking inside Derek's head when he hears

_It’s gone?_

Derek opens his eyes, realizing he’d closed them tight. They have squeezed much closer together. In some weird way Derek's shoulders have rounded around Stiles' shoulders and his cheek is hot against Stiles’ ear. More soft words

_Is this… Derek?_

Dazed, Derek starts to pull away. He slides his hands down Stiles’ back slowly, yet deliberately keeps his rough fingers in contact with the baby smooth skin, hearing what he's now realizing are little bits and pieces of thoughts. How did he even...? When he touches the edge of jeans and a belt, the lucid part of Derek's brain clicks. He takes his hands away, cutting the contact. Derek helps Stiles to sit on the ground and squats down to watch him.

Stiles’ eyes flutter open. He sort of gulps, out of breath. “Derek, how’d… How did you do that?” His eyes are wide and confused.

Derek is wondering about that too, about a few things, actually. He glances down toward the floor, seeing a tiny beetle crawl across the tile. Do insects have thoughts or emotions? Probably not, the lucky bastards. “The same way I take anything away,” Derek says, low and neutral.

Stiles has his hand over his heart, feeling it’s even beats. ”Thanks,” he says in a small voice. He sort of pouts, abashed. “That was really smart.”

The school bell rings, signaling the end of another school day.

Derek sits back on his butt, the rush catching up to him. “I just… No problem.” He blows out his cheeks and leans back against a bench, stretching his legs out beside Stiles. “What were you thinking when I did that?” He asks. He needs to be sure.

Stiles blinks, “I was... surprised. I feel like I’m dying one second and the next second I’m alive again. The panic was just, gone.”

Derek nods, not really sure what to say. He’d read Stiles’ mind no doubt, even if by accident. For both of their sakes Derek isn’t going to say anything about it. Besides, he won't have any time to now, because Scott is going to walk through the door in about two seconds. One. Two. 

“Stiles? Stiles are you-” Scott pauses, seeing Derek on the floor by his best friend. “Derek? What are you doing here?” He isn’t angry or anything, but if his face is a white board with words written all over it, it’s just been wiped clean.

Derek shares a furtive glance with Stiles, almost wishing he could read his mind again. “Uh...” Stiles starts, “Derek? He um, I needed um, he- I fell.”

Scott is a dummy, but he isn’t stupid. He is also a werewolf who can hear when Stiles’ heart bounces like a cat in the dryer. “So you left your class to come to the locker room where you fell, and called Derek to help you up.”

Stiles nods. “You were taking a test and I didn't want to bother you.”

Scott actually reels backwards in a _oh my god you’ve got to be kidding me_ gesture he’s most likely perfected over the years of being best friends with this smart ass. “So you called Derek who was probably twenty minutes away? Instead of _me_ , who was probably only twenty _seconds_ away and could’ve helped you sooner?” Derek doesn't mention that, no, it only took him about four minutes.

Stiles "uhh"s, his usual clever comebacks having abandoned him. "Yeah that's right."

Derek speaks up. “Scott, Stiles was having a panic attack and asked me to hit him, to snap him out of it. He didn’t want you to have to do it. And besides you had a test to take. You have to keep your grades up,” he adds sternly. As determined earlier, Derek is a great liar on the books, but not on the streets.

Even Stiles throws him a look, a, "What the hell kind of story is that" look, before nodding quickly. 

“Well, thanks Derek,” Scott settles, still on the fence but figuring not to push the explanation. Good boy. “Are you okay?” Scott asks Stiles, going over to him and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Dandy,” Stiles rolls his eyes. Scott helps him up and makes a joke about how if Stiles ever needs to be hit again, he’ll gladly volunteer. Stiles snorts. “Good to know. Thanks again, Derek.” Stiles’ tone and eyebrow wiggle indicating the overflow words he's going to assault Derek with later. Hopefully much later.

Lucky me. “I’ll see you two later,” Derek says to the peas in a pod, and leaves them.

Walking through the crowd of students, who else would he run into besides Isaac?

“Derek? What are you doing here? Is everything okay?” Isaac's (Stiles-explicated) "angelically asymmetrical" face sculpted with worry.

Oh if Derek hears his name one more time today he may not be able to control his own mean streak. “I had to help Stiles. It’s fine, Isaac,” he brushes Isaac away like a feather.

Isaac, always the wiser, catches his arm. “Well is Stiles okay? Where’s Scott?”

Derek looks pointedly at the hand on his arm and Isaac detaches it quickly. “He’s fine,” Derek says. “They’re in the locker room now.”

Isaac frowns, hitching his backpack up and crossing his arms. “Are _you_ okay?”

“I’m fine,” Derek lies, not caring to even hide it. The exhaustion that is growing all to familiar is kicking in. “Shouldn't you get to class?” Shit, Cora is right. He is a mom.

Isaac’s lips twist into an impish smile. “I guess,” he says, shrugging. He leaves Derek stumped in the middle of the hallway to go check on his friends. Even part of a pack, Derek never knows what's up with that kid.

As some sort of divine providence, Cora is waiting for him in the parking lot. Derek slides into the idling Toyota full of grocery bags and rests his head on the headrest without looking at his sister. "Everything's fine."

Cora about peels out of the lot. "Good. We have cold stuff."

 

 

 

 


	9. Shameless apples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know when you do something you shouldn't, but it's so insignificant at the time that it doesn't really affect you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for the wait... I don't deserve forgiveness. Netflix, enough said. Enjoy.  
> [Here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZnS4zft-Rls) a song for this short ass chapter.

"Derek, do you know why Cora hasn't been speaking to me?" Peter asked him the next day, Thursday.

"How should I know?" Derek said distractedly, playing a game on his phone. Out of his peripheral he saw Peter put a hand on his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "I just figured you'd know, considering you're her brother and all."

"Well, no clue," he said it so blandly he doubted anyone could detect the lie there.

Peter leisurely walked to the table and picked a green apple from a large ornate bowl. Cora had found the bowl upstairs, stubbornly saying it looked nice when she put her apples in it. Derek raised an eyebrow at her. She always did her damnedest to act hard and strong, but she surprised him with how strangely maternal she could be.

"Another thing I'm curious about," he used his claws to peel the skin from the apple in one long swirly peel, like something you could decorate a tree with and expect to squirrels eating. "When did you start doing the grocery shopping?" Derek kept his focus on his game and ignored his uncle’s attempt to annoy him.

Peter had an affinity for stirring up trouble and it must be one of _those_ days. You know, those days where his uncle would get bored and make Derek try to break his goddamn neck or something for fun. He seriously got a kick out of it.

"The effort is a little late though wouldn't you say? I mean, you don't really have much of a pack to provide for anymore with your two poor excuses of betas gone. Not to mention throwing out the clumsy sweet abused boy like a puppy with leprosy." He crunched the apple loudly. It sounded like the noise his skull would make when Derek crushed it under his boot. "But he's much happier with Scott," he chewed obnoxiously. "Scott is turning out to be a great alpha, don't you think? I mean, he doesn't even believe he's an alpha and he's already better than you. Nicer too."

Derek did his best to ignore him. Like, imagined a gorilla dressed as an angel playing a harp and singing about acorns, because he really didn't want to succumb to the taunting.

“Derek, are you ignoring me?”

Acorns, acorns, acorns...

“Ah good, in that case I’m free to unabashedly express my feelings about this whole _Stiles_ situation.” Here we go again. “All you do is sit around waiting for that little pest to summon you like you're his royal nurse. He’s only a nuisance to you Derek."

Derek narrowed his eyes, still staring at his phone, clutched almost to the breaking point in his hand.

"And aside from grocery shopping," Peter barked a laugh, "you've been close to worthless since this little _crush_ started.”

Derek sprung from his seat like something burnt his ass cheek and snatched up his uncle's shirt collar in his fist.

"Oh no fun, I thought you were ignoring me."

Derek growled deep in his throat, a warning. " _Shut. up._ " Okay, he gave in. But nobody talked to him like that, or about Stiles who hadn't done anything wrong.

Peter held his hands up. "Now Derek, I was only suggesting that this seems a little counter-productive. I would've thought someone like you would have more dignity than that."

"Yeah and I thought someone who worked so hard to bring themselves back from the dead would value their life a little more," Derek yelled.

Peter cocked his head to the side. "Inside voices, Derek," he shh'd him. "We have company."

Derek looked in the direction Peter gestured to.

Isaac stood just inside the large doorway with his hands in his pockets, keeping his distance while watching the two family members like they might turn their aggression on him in a heartbeat. "Um, am I interrupting something?" He asked warily.

"Not at all," Peter said at the same time Derek said "yes." Isaac faltered in his step forward and looked to Derek for permission. Derek sighed and released his uncle roughly. "What is it Isaac?"

The blonde boy looked relieved and continued forward. "I uh, I need to talk to you."

"About what?"

Isaac sat on the table, dust motes leaped and danced around him in the light filtering through the grimy window. “What are you doing with Stiles?”

Derek went back to their strange little conversation in the hall the day before.

So he knew something was up with Stiles and him, but he didn't know what. He considered telling Isaac to just go home and forget it, but because unless he threw him out the window or something he would just keep questioning Derek about it. Or worse he would go off and talk to Scott, who knew nothing. Either way he still owed Stiles to keep this secret.

“Yes, why don't you fill him in Derbear?” Peter said, mocking him with Cora’s nickname. Derek picked up a hard red apple and pelted him with it from across the table. It blew apart, scattering fragments of fruit everywhere.

Even though all of that was true, Derek decided that it was for Stiles' own good if his friends knew. “Stiles is still healing.”

Isaac’s eyebrows pulled together, picking a piece of apple off the table. “Um, of course he’s still healing; his leg is broken.”

“No you-” he caught himself, “that night in the woods, I left scratches on him that hadn't healed after a month.”

Isaac made a confused face. “What, because you're an alpha?”  

“Sort of. You remember when Peter tried to resurface your memories with his claws in your neck?”

Isaac glanced at Peter, who smiled at him. Derek wasn’t “Yeah, I remember,” he rubbed the back of his neck uneasily, warding off a chill.

“I accidently transferred _something_ , like nightmares into his mind that last as long as his wound isn’t healed.”

Isaac looked confused as Derek explained the rest, but even Derek still didn't really get it anyway. As long as it worked he didn't care.

“So,” Isaac picked a soft yellow apple from the bowl and held it in his hands, examining it carefully. “Yeah but, why doesn’t he want anyone to know about it? I don’t see the big deal.”

Derek rolled his eyes, recurring irritation visiting again. “He doesn't want anyone to worry about him.”

“That’s why I asked you what was going on; Scott _is_ worried about him,” Isaac twisted the stem from the apple and pinched it between his fingers. “He doesn’t know what’s wrong with Stiles. He has those weird panic attacks, and lately he smells different. But Stiles just denies anything being wrong.”

“Different?”

“Yeah. He's starting to smell more and more like you.” Isaac looked up at him carefully. "It's just a matter of time before he figures it out."

“You aren't telling Scott,” Derek warned.

“But, Derek,” Isaac said indignantly, “he needs to know.”

Derek walked over to Isaac and did one of the things he did best, intimidated him. "I know. But it's not your place to tell him." Then he amended softly, "If you're looking for permission, you should be talking to Stiles, not to me."

Isaac opened his mouth to try and pose an argument, but shut it. Good. Maybe Derek wasn't fully his alpha anymore, but Isaac still knew his place. He bit his lip and looked toward the floor, submitting. "I still don't like it," he muttered, sliding off the table with a creak.

"Yeah well, I don't either," Derek admitted. Things would go a little more smoothly for him if it wasn't secret.

 

________

  


"So I told Scott about all this, after the game tonight," Stiles said Friday night, where Derek met him in his room for the second time after a lacrosse game. Stiles obviously couldn't play, but he warmed the bench and apparently kept the coach company.

"Oh yeah?" Derek stopped playing with a small bouncy ball and looked at Stiles, sitting cross legged on his bed picking through a bowl of carrots. Isaac was right; Stiles smelled like him. Aside from his current scent of sweat, deodorant and Stiles, he had a faint undercurrent of Derek clinging to him.

Stiles looked up at Derek, hearing the change in his usual gruff tone. "Yeah? He was worried, I guess."

"Did... Isaac talk to you?"

"Actually, yeah he did. He tried to act like, like he didn't really know anything but I could tell he did?" Stiles looked at him curiously. "How'd you know?"

"He came by yesterday wanting to know what we were up to, so I told him. It was time to tell them, Stiles. Sorry but it's better this way whether you like it or not." Huh. Maybe it was an alpha thing, but making Stiles obey him caused the rare feeling of satisfaction to settle in his body.

Stiles wasn't mad, he just exhaled sharply. “I know. Thats why I told him. I feel worse I think, than if he already knew. The look on his face was just like... 'Why didn't you say anything?'” He crunched a carrot between his front teeth with a loud snap. "But then he wanted to see my back and told me I'd have wicked scars, dude," Stiles laughed suddenly and Derek caught the majestic view of carrot pulp mush around his mouth. "I'm glad he wasn't angry. But you know Scott, he's just..." Stiles blew out his cheeks, sobering.

"A good friend," Derek settled for him. Stiles didn't need to tell him how relieved he was, he could see it in his face.

"Yeah." A few minutes passed where neither spoke; but the conversation was carried on by the crunching of Stiles' carrots and the bumping of Derek's bouncy ball. Then Stiles asked, "do you think I'll have scars?"

Derek caught the ball before it bounced into the ceiling fan and looked at him. He wasn't upset or anything, just curious. "Do you _want_ scars?" Derek asked scornfully.

Stiles somehow rolled his eyes to look just as contemptuous as if saying, _geez you're so annoying_. "No. Like I want to look like I'm some poor, traumatized sidekick in a weird T.V. show about teen werewolves or something." He exhaled a laugh.

"Right. Hopefully it won't scar. Speaking of which," Derek motioned with a twist of his index finger that it was time for Stiles to assume the position.

He snorted before taking his shirt off and tossing it in the general direction of his clothes hamper. "I'm not a dog, you know," he stated, hunching forward in a stretch. His collarbones stretched away from skin to form little bowls under his shoulders. He laid back on the bed.

"I never said you were. Now roll over."

"Ha ha, you're a funny guy. No really, hilarious. Keep it up and soon you can compete for the prestigious title of worlds biggest asshole."

Derek couldn't bite his lip fast enough to stifle the laugh that escaped his mouth. Dammit.

"Woah was that a laugh? Or did you just choke on your own bad humor?"

"Shut up," Derek pinched Stiles arm. Oops, that was going to bruise. Stiles rolled over then, grumbling. Derek put his hands on his back and did his thing, dark matter coursing up his veins to be purified.

Soon Derek's thoughts reverted back to what he'd been trying not to think about since Wednesday. He'd tried his best to not think about it, but... How had he heard Stiles thoughts the other day? It was an accident, yeah, but how? It wasn't like he wanted to...

You know when you do something you shouldn't, but it's so insignificant at the time that it doesn't really affect you? Like tossing the wrapper from your straw on the ground because there isn't a garbage can in plain sight. Or eating a third brownie, after you told yourself only one? Because it's not like you're going to gain five pounds right then and there. Well that's sort of what this was for Derek: a lapse in better judgment. Or maybe just careless curiosity. Either way, that's how he justified dipping deeper down, listening for Stiles' unspoken thoughts for a moment.

He didn't hear anything at first, just a familiar little white noise, like the AC running. But soon a thought rose to him and popped like a bubble at the surface of his mind.

_... need to wash my sheets... They smell like drool._

What? Derek winced and shook his head a bit.

What else was he expecting to hear? Feeling immediately guilty (and stupid) he backed away and watched Stiles turn over and look up at him. For once it was like he had no expression on his face, to Derek he just looked tired, somber. For a second Derek was afraid Stiles must’ve known something was up. But then he asked,

"So... Want some icecream?"

Okay so maybe he didn't know anything. Derek heaved a sigh of relief, and agreed. That night he stayed in Stiles' room for another hour, eating icecream and talking about nothing important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't that shitty? Hooray.. I'm disappoint also. I told you it's Supernatural's fault. Destiel!


	10. Break stuff, like your heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well sometimes Derek caught himself tapping his fingertips on Stiles' arm or wherever to a song stuck in his head. Or Stiles sitting next to him when there was obviously a seat two seats away. Though none of this bothered either of them. They were friends.  
> Then everything changed in such a short time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shoot I'm not dead. Yeah, I know. I suck. But as always, enjoy, and any errors are because I'm suck.  
> [Soooo000oo0o0ong](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nHlDU7GokIc) for you.

Stiles' scars were now the color of pink-lemonade, not the bright pink powder mix kind, but the homemade kind; the kind you'd make pink with strawberries or raspberries and drink on a hot day with lots of ice out by the pool. That was the color Derek imagined it to be anyway. Soon it would melt away under the skin.

Better, his clunky cast had been replaced by a smaller brace that even he was safe to walk on. Stiles whooped with joy the day he could finally hobble around without crutches. He admonished them for helping him to "beef up" his arm muscles before cramming them in the trash can by the street.

The doctors called it a miracle. If they only knew.

Likewise, things between them were good too. They got to know each other for more than how much they thought they bothered each other. If that makes any sense. They had the same tastes in music, for the most part. They both liked Chinese food because they'd eat it at least once a week when Derek could stay long (like he usually did), and found they both really disliked raisins because once the only cereal left in the house was a box of raisin bran with that satanic little sun on it (the sheriff's go-to) and they refused to touch it. Neither had ever had another pet besides a pitiful goldfish from the carnival, and birds gave them the creeps. Stiles devoted almost two hours of each day to video games, where Derek devoted that same time to physical fitness. Stiles easily reeled in straight A's every semester and the best Derek ever managed to drag in were straight B's and he had even been in regular classes. He wasn't dumb, he was just more interested in sports. And girls. Neither had a girlfriend. Stiles wasn't exactly suave and Derek had terrible luck holding onto a long term relationship, not to mention his choice in women.

Stiles liked pranks. He tried in earnest to get any sort of response from Derek. At first it was child's play, like hiding behind things to jump out and say something dumb like "raar", or switching the sugar out for salt in Derek's afternoon jumpstart coffee. It wasn't like he even fell for any of these things, to Stiles' dismay, rather disassembled his attempts without a word. With a lifetime of super human senses and all that, he could see these things coming a mile away. Though there was one day when Stiles finally got a response, albeit crudely.

It was a Wednesday. There was no lacrosse practice on Wednesday, so Stiles had just returned home from school around two in the afternoon, the familiar sound of his Jeep pulling into the drive. Derek was already resting in his spot and heard the door unlock with a clack and shut with a creak, swollen from the humidity of rainy late spring days, then the dump of school belongings on the kitchen counter. Stiles greeted him with a "hay" from inside the refrigerator, scouting for food like he did every afternoon. Derek returned his greeting without turning around. He was watching a program about how random stuff is made, resting his head on his hand and trying to keep his eyes open. He'd had a long night.

"How it's Made? Which one is it?" Stiles asked, plopping down on the couch cushion closest to Derek's chair and chomped into a piece of cold barbecue chicken pizza.

Derek rubbed at the corners of his tired eyes and stretched his mouth into a painful yawn. "Hotdogs."

"Oh you've gotta see this, it's crazy. There's this machine and it like, shoots out hotdogs at lightspeed!"

Derek fell asleep.

Waking up sometime later, he snorted from the smell of marker (it's really unpleasant with a werewolf nose) and Stiles was gone. "What the hell," he muttered and rubbed his hands over the sleepy muscles in his face. His hands came away stained blue.

Really.

"Stiles," he called, feigning an unsuspecting composure. Derek walked through the house, following the smell of pizza until he came to the hall closet. He relished the way Stiles' heart jumped when he flung open the closet door to find him hiding doe-eyed with the spare linens.

"You do realize I could find you by the stench of your breath alone." Derek had stated.

Stiles opened his mouth and flushed a bit. "Well uh, I-" Stiles broke off, sputtering with poorly contained laughter.

Derek shut the door on him and went to the bathroom.

Stiles had written "DERPWOLF" on his forehead in blue marker. So maybe he should've strangled the giggles out of Stiles, but he wasn't angry. Actually, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much fun.

Maybe it was sometime before Paige. Or before he was tricked by a crazy bitch and his life literally burned down, turned to shit. Before what was left became ruled by a perpetual, bitter anger that changed him into the person he was. But as of late he barely recognized himself.

Like when he was looking in the bathroom mirror and rubbing his forehead red with a washcloth, he stopped. The person matching his stare was... different. Maybe his eyes weren't as cold? Or maybe the hard set of his mouth was beginning to soften. He determined it must be the weird lights in the bathroom setting his features off in a weird way. Weirdly.

It was funny he thought, this wasn't like Stiles either. Normal Stiles would stick to Scott like a talking and moving shirt stain, who would toss Derek occasional dirty looks and keep his distance.

But that day he realized- thisStiles that leaned in the bathroom doorway, who watched him from the mirror with his colorful eyes smiling of victory- was something new. The way he fed his caretaker wolf like a stray animal, could make him laugh with his (terrible) jokes, and welcomed him in his house. Maybe this was just who he is, Derek thought, not just some smart alec spaz.

"Couldn't think of anything better than derpwolf?"

"I thought it was funny."

"Mhm, hilarious," Derek smirked, pinching his ear lobe and making him flinch on the way out of the bathroom. "Little shit..." He muttered.

That was another strange thing. The collective measure of their personal space was diminishing. It wasn't a bad thing at all, it was just... Well sometimes Derek caught himself tapping his fingertips on Stiles' arm or wherever to a song stuck in his head. Or Stiles sitting next to him when there was obviously a seat two seats away. Though none of this bothered either of them. They were friends. Granted, Derek _did_ have to be in a slightly intimate position with him often.

Speaking of which (he wouldn't say this outloud but), he became very familiar with the slope of Stiles' back. He knew where each tiny mole was, how ticklish his ribs were (that was an accident), knew his thumbs fit nicely in the dimples resting right above the elastic band of his boxers that always peeked out of his pants. He knew how Stiles' temperature rose a bit when his hands unintentionally crept a little too low like that, raising goosebumps like daisies. It was intriguing, but he kept his curiosity focused on other things. Like the thoughts he heard when he was doing what he wasn't supposed to be doing.

Yeah yeah, he knew. Bad.

He now knew Stiles' locker combination, not that he'd need it. And how much he didn't seem to like Allison (the feeling was mutual). He knew that Stiles kept tabs on his dad's alcohol supply to see how much he'd drank that week. He knew that Stiles knew something was up between Isaac and Scott (Derek wasn't surprised, they reeked of each other) and he felt a little left out because of this growing development. He didn't really have any other friends. They'd died, left the country, or barely acknowledged his existence. Then there was how Stiles felt about him.

It was the next visit, Friday. It was around seven and the sheriff was staying late at the station, stuck with paperwork due to a break in at a local gas station earlier that day. Arrests meant paperwork, as far as Derek knew. They were in Stiles bedroom, on his twin bed. Stiles laid belly down with his head facing away from Derek, who sat criss-cross-applesauce next to him. His leg pressed to Stiles' arm, hands pressed to his back in comfortable silence.

The lights were off in the room, so the light of the sunset was streaming through the window in rays. Derek watched the dust particles twirl through the buttery light; each one held a little rainbow. It was nice.

Afterwards, he watched Stiles' scar shrink and turn the the color of a not too ripe watermelon. He kept his hands down and thoughts floated up and spooked him like little ghosts.

_...I like Derek a lot. He's a good guy..._

Derek almost drew away, he was so surprised then. The thoughts were genuine and fond, just a private quip from inside his head. For a moment, Derek's red-handed guilty feelings disappeared when a new mixture of emotion hit him. Like a stew of satisfaction, comfort and relief in the bowl of his head. He didn't have a spoon to help him digest it.

Most of his life, he'd never had the luxury of trusting just about anyone, so he rarely did. He never felt safe to. But right then for possibly the first time in his life, there in his hands was a sweet, shiny, clear as day confirmation of something for him. I mean, have you ever gotten the chance to know exactly how someone feels about you? Even if it's just your friend?

Derek took his hands away and let them fall to his lap. They tingled. His mind was buzzing. Stiles turned over and sat up so his left knee touched Derek's left knee. He didn't make a bolt for his shirt like he usually did, instead looked down and played with the dead skin on his thumb.

"Did I ever say thank you?" He asked.

Derek furrowed his brow and looked at him, momentarily distracted from his reverie. "Several times." He remembered his first night in Stiles room, how Stiles was on the verge of sleep but still thanked Derek before he jumped out the window to go home. He remembered how out of place he felt afterwards, how he wanted to be part of this but felt that he couldn't. Now here he was. Everything had changed in such a short time.

"Oh," Stiles shook his head. "Yeah, you're right. I remember. Time flies, right?" He laughed and stretched, making their knees bump together.

"Sometimes."

 

_______

  
  


"I don't care what you say, that's disgusting, Stiles."

"Hey, this is a classic!"

"No."

"Well you're just... dumb."

It was the first day of June, near the end of the school year. Telltale signs of summer were popping up everywhere. The air was getting warmer, the sky seemed impossibly blue some days, and even though it was only five in the afternoon, a myriad of bugs clicked and chirped outside.

Stiles cooked at the stove while rambling excitedly to Derek all about his summer plans. He was going to get his brace removed this month at the rate Derek was healing him, so he had every activity in mind. That detail came about one afternoon when Stiles timidly asked Derek if he'd continue doing this for him even after the rest of his terrors were gone, to heal his leg. Derek agreed,  reminding Stiles that this was his fault anyway.

"You're dumb."

Stiles had plans to go to Scott's uncle's house out by the coast in a few weeks, and he and Scott wanted to try surfing, so he "needed his leg back!" Derek remarked that he'd go search for the most powerful sunscreen on the market, like the kind they make for naked mole rats. Stiles cracked a knuckle punching him on the shoulder.

Derek didn't have any plans for summer, except outlasting anymore  Alphas and/or hunters, and worst of all: the boredom he'd face without Stiles there to entertain him. And after Stiles came back... Will he have changed? Would he still want Derek around? He didn't want to think about it.

"Don't you want to at least try it?" Stiles cooed with his mouth full of his creation.

Derek had been helping Stiles with his studies for finals this upcoming week, though it was mostly him getting Stiles to focus on school and not everything else. The kid really did have A.D.D, genius or not. They'd been studying for maybe three hours when Stiles _rahh_ 'ed in frustration and announced he needed a snack. Peanutbutter and strawberry jelly sandwiches were good. So were peanutbutter and banana sandwiches. But a fried peanutbutter banana and strawberry jelly sandwich was sacrilege. And that's where they were right now.

"I think I'll stick with my rabbits," Derek said bluntly.

"I knew you ate rabbits," Stiles swallowed and reached for his milk. "What else do you eat- kittens?"

Derek nodded. "Only the calico ones. I like the way they taste. Much better than tabbies."

Stiles nodded in acknowledgment. "Did you know that usually only female cats can be calicos?"

"Why is that?"

"I think it has something to do with chromosomes." He examined a finger before licking fried jelly goo off of it. "Of course, I could be wrong," he shrugged and rubbed his sticky hand on his shorts.

"You? Never," Derek scoffed. When had he become such a wise ass? Stiles agreed with that and got up to put his plate in the sink. "Back to work," Stiles said.

"If you actually do any."

"Shut up."

They climbed the stairs with Derek behind (to catch Stiles if he decided to take a tumble), where Stiles rounded the corner to the bathroom and Derek returned to the bedroom. He sat down on the bed and looked around. He was going to miss this. This human's room was like his second werewolf home. He kept his window open all the time now for Derek, to come and go as he pleased. It was nice to feel at home somewhere that wasn't burned down, moldy, or even dusty. Although it wasn't dirty, it had a comfortably messy charm to it. The way none of his dresser drawers were ever shut all the way, how his clothes halfway made it in the hamper, and his bed was never really made. But he did put his discs back in their respective cases.

He shuffled a few of the papers on the unmade bed around and laid back, looking for pictures in the ceiling plaster. He'd been here enough now to recognize a few: the tree, the centaur, the androgynous face, and the fish. He listened to Stiles coming back, thinking that he sounded a lot like how a pirate with a peg leg might sound. The image that accompanied that was funny enough to make him bark a laugh.

Stiles sat down next to him, his weight sinking into the mattress. "Whats so funny?"

Derek peeked at him through an eyelid. He had a glass of water in his hand. Why did he insist on using the glass cups? There were plenty of plastic ones. "Just you."

"Well thanks, I try," he pursed his lips and went back to studying a page of economics notes, his least favorite subject. Derek sat up slowly, shifting the small bed again and read over Stiles shoulder.

"What is a buyer's market?" Derek asked, quizzing him.

Stiles squinted his eyes and looked to the ceiling. "A uhh... Market in which supply is plentiful and prices are low..?"

Derek moved a little closer, until his collarbone touched Stiles' shoulder blade and peeked at the paper. "Right. Well then what is a... Seller's market?"

"Uhh..." He leaned back into Derek to stretch his neck with a pop. His ear brushed the stubble on Derek's cheek and he ducked away, ticklish. He was warm and smelled very Stiles-y; a smell Derek found to be mostly composed of junk food, laundry soap, that PERT shampoo nobody used (but smelled so good), and something vaguely sweet. "The opposite of a buyer's market."

Derek checked. "Good enough." He quizzed him on a few more terms before they were quiet, Stiles shuffled through some papers on the bed.

"Uh... You okay?" Stiles asked, sounding a little dubious. He took a drink of his water.

Derek had taken up with his thoughts, distractedly rubbing circles into his human friend's back. His question knocked his head back in place and he stopped. "I'm fine." He did this sometimes, touching Stiles like he owned a part of him, which wasn't true, he'd tell himself. It was just a force of habit. "But your dad is going to be home soon," he reminded him.

They had maybe half an hour before papa Stillinski returned home from work (he never worked Sundays, but he'd gone into the station to cover shifts for a friend on this particular Sunday), which meant Derek had to do what he came to do and be gone by then.

"Oh, yeah," Stiles said, sounding vanquished. He fumbled looking for a place to put his his things down so he could take off his shirt, before Derek moved for him; sliding behind him with his outstretched leg resting against Stiles's hip and his other folded behind Stiles' behind. He pulled the material of Stiles' shirt up and slid his hands under.

"Uh, thanks," he said, flustered, warming up a bit before settling down again.

His scars turned to nothing but faint hairless shimmer; something you might not notice at all unless you were close enough. Just once more and they'd be gone. It was a relief. Little did Derek know, these next words would be last he'd secretly hear.

They were hushed to himself, burning up with shame, and firm like a warning.

_...Don't think about that._

They made Derek's façade break and the words that ended it all flew from his mouth like startled birds, he couldn't stop them.

"Think about what?"

The fallout was immediate. The body that was always so soft and forgiving under his touch froze, everything going numb with surprise before shutting off. Derek was too surprised with himself to catch Stiles' glass when he dropped it. It shattered on the floor by their feet, the perfect symphony to the holy mess he felt inside. He pulled himself away from the boy, not saying anything.

Stiles turned slowly, watching the messy sheets before meeting Derek's eyes. It was suddenly so hard to look at him, just like the at hospital. Stiles was just a fragile, broken human and Derek was the big bad wolf all over again. His bright eyes were wide and confused in his slack face. His mouth was slightly parted, like he had so many things to say but for once couldn't say anything.

"Stiles," Derek said quietly, reaching for him like he would reach for a wild bird with a broken wing. He didn't want him to try and fly away.

"What did you..." His mouth twisted. "Did you read my mind?"

Derek's hand on Stiles arm slipped away. It was almost funny, hearing it said out loud. But it really wasn't. Derek's heart pounded in his chest. He wondered if Stiles could hear it.

"Stiles-"

"Scott told me how you guys can do that," he went on, not leaving Derek's eyes. "Only an Alpha can."

Jesus shit. _What did he do?_ He was drowning inside. He opened his mouth to say something, and the confession he'd hidden under piles of excuses spilled out like vomit. He told him how he knew since the day at the vet, how he didn't mean to, how he kept doing it anyway, how he was sorry (so, so sorry). When he was finished he felt hollow and sick. His mouth even tasted sour.

Derek had stood up and moved away, unable to meet his eyes, to see the wrong he'd made. Stiles just sat there, staring at the space they'd previously shared.

"Why?" Stiles asked.

Derek didn't know. "I don't know," he said quietly, honestly.

"What do you mean you don't _know_?" He grimaced, the first sign of anger showing on his face.

"I-"

"No, shut up." He commanded, angry. He'd been angry at Derek before in the past, and it never bothered him so much as a breeze would. But this was killing him. "We- we're friends, Derek. I didn't think you would actually go behind my back- _literally behind my back_ and do something like that. I thought that-" he stopped, holding something back.

Derek wanted to go to him. Touch his nose, hold his hand and squeeze it. But he couldn't. He didn't deserve to. He gritted his teeth instead. "I know."

Stiles took a deep breath, looking over at him. For the first time, his eyes were cold, as if the little fire they held just for Derek had extinguished.

"Get out."

It was a whisper, but it bit him deep inside, somehow hurting worse than if he'd screamed it. He just stood there, unable to move.

Stiles stood up from the bed then, and as if things could get any worse, stepped in the glass with his good foot. He cursed and fell to the floor, squeezing his already bleeding foot.

" _Go away_!" Stiles yelled before Derek could get to him, flinging his hand out like he was a monster. "Just go, Derek!" There were tears in his eyes.

Derek had no choice- he left. He jumped out the window, and ran away.

Everything had changed in such a short time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Kay so, sorry for all the (parenthesis). Bad habit. So cliff hanger c: Also very sorry for how abrupt that was. But it's going to be okay! I will try to not be sooooo late for the next chapter, I already know what I'm going to write and I'm excited. Alright let's catch up. How was your Halloween? Good? How are you? Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Really. Yeah that was nice, we should do that more often. I like you the best, don't worry. Be safe, don't become the first five minutes of Supernatural, until next time!


	11. Emotional constipation is not a laughing matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek wasn't a dramatic person. Really. He wasn't the type to go looking for abandoned houses or lay on the ground in the forest in the rain when he was feeling upset because it was poetic or something. These things just seem to happen to him. Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hayyy. Here you go, early Christmas. This is a slow chapter, not much happens, if you guessed from the title. The mistakes are my fault, so enjoy them.  
> Ohh song, [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3vGhH2Fe5qY). This one, I liek.

The rain came down in sheets, filtering through the canopy of colorless leaves. It ran down the branches of trees and fell to the forest floor like blood from an open wound in the opaque sky. The air was cool but tasted dank and bitter, the moisture breathing new life into the rotting organic matter hidden beneath the the forest floor. Derek just laid there in the dirt, a giant alien amongst the little insects and tiny mushrooms.

It had been four days.

After hitting the ground below Stiles' two story window, he ran. He ran until he was sore, wolfed out and lost. A faint voice in the back of his mind told him he should be concerned that he had no clue where he was, but there was a much louder voice in the front of his head that wouldn't stop yelling. He sank down on an a decrepit bench under an oak tree, finding himself to be somewhere on a stretch of farm property neighbored by forest on all sides.

A few hundred feet away stood what looked like an abandoned and dilapidated old fashioned two-story farm house. It only added to his guilt, reminding him of the pain he caused his family.

Just like the Hale house, at one point this had probably been beautiful, maybe blue, with rocking chairs on the porch and even marigold flower boxes in the windows. Derek's mother always made sure to have marigolds growing somewhere around the house; she loved them. But now after having been abandoned, this house was reminiscent of something he'd seen in a horror movie. Spoiler alert: everyone died.

He thought that it was only natural he'd wind up in a place like this. Somewhere cold, ominous, broken down and forgotten. Because that's just where he belonged. A day ago he liked to believe that he maybe belonged by Stiles, but that obviously wasn't the case.

He panted like a dog, staring up at the night sky. He winced, feeling his wolf canines sink into his gums, his claws shrank back down to blunt human nails as he cooled off. A cicada buzzed with its rusty chirp from somewhere in the tall grass nearby. The mottled wood of the bench itched through his clothes, but the stars distracted him from it- there were so many and they were so bright.

He loitered on that forgotten property for an hour and watched the stars, thinking about everything he wish he hadn't done or would've done differently in his life, before heading home. It turned out he was in a neighboring county just west of Beacon Hills, almost 20 miles away from home. Thank God for cellphone GPS.

Finding his front door early Monday morning, he'd collapsed onto his bed not caring how dirty or sweaty he was and slept like a dead man until the last hours of his sleep, where he woke in the afternoon from a nightmare. Stiles told him he couldn't breathe and blood welled up out of his mouth while Derek tried reaching for him but his arms wouldn't work.

Sitting still on his bed, he could feel something dark squirming under his skin so he got up from his bed, showered, dressed, and left again. Or tried to anyway, because just before he could get his hand on the door handle, Cora was by his side with a flip of brown hair.

"Derek, where've you been?" She asked, her voice snapping him out of whatever haze he was in.

He looked at his sister; her cinnamon brown eyes searched his face. Her anger melted upon seeing his expression, full lips parting in quiet concern. "What happened?"

Jesus, what _hadn't_ happened? He was stupid, he went behind his only good friend's back, lost that friend's trust, hurt him (again), ran away like a coward, his head was aching and he was still stupid.

When he looked away and didn't reply, Cora gripped his arm and he let her pull him to the table and sit him down. She sat down caddy-corner from him, elbows on the table. "Tell me," she asked in a neutral voice.

Derek held his head and rubbed his temples. "Do we have any Tylenol?" He mumbled, voice sounding unfamiliar to himself. Even though he was superhuman, he still got headaches. Cora shot him a displeased look but got up anyway and rifled through a few cabinets before returning with two white capsules, a bottle of water and a bowl of pretzels. She'd found out awhile back he'd been the one pirating her goldfish, so she refused to disclose their whereabouts and Derek decided it wasn't fun anymore not getting to blame Peter for eating them.

Derek gulped his medicine and slowly crunched a few pretzels, feeling sick from not having eaten for maybe a whole day. They tasted like cardboard. Cora waited, patiently watching him for several minutes before she tried again.

"Did something happen with Stiles?"

Derek swallowed the last of his water and compacted the empty bottle in his fist with a loud crunch.

She stared at him, looking very much like her older brother for a second. "Do I have to beat it out of you?" She prompted.

Derek smiled a little behind his clasped hands. Cora always had an unethical way of making him feel better. "As if, CareBear."

They bantered a bit before Derbear spilled his self-disgusted beans; having to confess twice was like picking the scabs from day-old wounds. But Cora listened without interrupting until he finished.

"Well, you're an idiot," she concluded without much thought.

"I know," he dead-panned. Despite that, he felt much better. More alive, save the tight, empty box ache in his chest.

"Well... What are you gonna do?" She asked.

He hadn't thought about that yet. What he really _wanted_ , was to go back and apologize until Stiles would tell him he forgives him, so they could continue on being friends and puzzle pieces of each others' lives. Just like that.

But what he _needed_ to do, was give Stiles time. He knew that. Going back now and making a bigger idiot of himself by flinging out apologies like candy in a chocolate factory was not going to solve anything, it was begging- and he was not a dog. He was also stubborn.

"I'm going to wait," he conceded. He could do that.

"For?"

Derek leaned forward and bumped his forehead on the table. "I have no idea."

Everyone knows that nobody likes waiting and Derek the werewolf was no exception to that universal rule. It was like that first month all over again, this time waiting for Stiles to come to _him_ when he was ready. If he ever was. All the things he felt and wanted to say jumbled around inside him without an outlet; he was about bursting at the seams, mostly with anger directed towards himself.

To alleviate this pressure, he ran. He would run for hours through the woods without motive, every time he'd find new paths and places he'd never seen. By the time he was done he would be so worn out that he didn't have the energy to feel anything. That was good.

 

_______

 

Tuesday was supposed to be their next meeting. Derek kept his phone volume on the loudest setting, listening for it to ring all day like a dumb little girl. It rang once, and he was glad nobody was around because he literally dove for it from across the room like a cougar for the last piece of bologna, feeling a rib crack when he belly-flopped on the dirty wood floor.

But it was just Peter, calling to ask him if he wanted any Chinese food.

Deflated, he hung his head, his unkempt dark hair brushing the floor.

" _NO_ ," he said into the receiver before hanging up.

No, he did not want Chinese food. He did not want it with a mouse in a house, with a fox in a box, on a car a train or a boat. He wanted it with Stiles.

He got up, jammed his phone in his back pocket, and took off again.

 

________

 

On Wednesday, he didn't know why, but he was back at the abandoned house he'd found. He wanted to see it again, this time in the light of day. Oddly it only appeared more run-down in the sunshine, but much less creepy.

He surveyed the house while standing at the bench again, the midday sun had smelted his shirt to his skin after his almost hour long run. It was cool under the shade of the oak tree though and a breeze was blowing, so he stayed for a bit to catch air for his aching lungs.

He walked up to the house through a path in the hip high grass, scaring a grasshopper out of its hiding place. The place was pretty big, almost big as the Hale house, he thought. The porch was large, and wrapped around the entire house. The only things on it were dead plants hanging from the porch ceiling in grimy ceramic pots, two brittle folding chairs and a worn out welcome mat.

He tried the front door. It opened easily and he felt the pressure of the stale air in the house change from being shut up for a long while. He stood in a foyer and the first thing he noticed was the bright floral wallpaper covering its walls. 

To the right there was a dining room with big windows, a large round wooden dining table and six chairs. Connected to that was a kitchen with a back door to the porch and kitchen appliances from what looked like the 1970's. They were a little grungy but still functional.

He opened a door in the kitchen that he thought would show him a pantry, but took him down to a cellar instead. It was small, held up by support beams and floor to ceiling shelves. He could taste the tang of vinegar from the white washed wood covering the walls and floor, from old and forgotten jars of pickled vegetables on the shelves.

To the left of the kitchen was the livingroom he assumed, because it was spacious with nothing in it besides a large, old ornate chaise lounge and a fireplace made of gray and timber colored stones. There was a dingy bathroom beside it, with actual running water which was amazing, because it didn't look like anyone had inhabited the place in a decade, except for maybe the occasional homeless person or lost supernatural creature.

He headed up the stairs cautiously (he didn't trust them to not break) and found another bathroom. There were three bedrooms; one with a bed, one with only a bed frame and one with neither. Above that was the attic, which was creepy, beyond dusty and dark with a spare wrought iron bed frame.

He noticed everything in the house (as far as he could tell) from the curtains to the old knobs on the sink, was at least twenty years old. He was impressed by how well the few abandoned sticks of furniture had held up so well over the years. He made a mental note that this place would make a nice “off the radar” home base if they ever needed a new place to live.

He sat at a small window seat in the attic, spying another large oak tree in the backyard with a tire swing turning lazily in the breeze.

Going down to investigate, he found after a good tug on the swing that it wasn't safe- the brittle rope snapped and the swing fell to the ground with a thud. For some reason that was funny and he laughed for the first time in days. He could clearly imagine Stiles jumping on it without forethought only for it to fall. They'd both laugh as long as he wasn't hurt and Derek would help him up and brush him off.

He imagined it so clearly, and for just a second, everything was okay.

He and Stiles were still friends and Derek would drive him here tomorrow and they'd build a new swing together and he'd push Stiles on the swing for awhile until they were hungry then they'd get Chinese food and go back to Stiles' place and spend all night watching T.V. before Stiles would fall asleep and Derek would carry him up to his room and-

Derek shook his head abruptly. He picked up the old tire swing and threw it in the direction of the trees, _hard_.

"Dammit," he muttered, flexing a muscle he pulled in his shoulder.

Why was his life suddenly revolving around some stupid, clumsy, short, endearing, smart ass, honey-brown eyed, aggravating _human_? Who the hell was he anymore?

 

_______

 

 

Thursday, he'd made up his mind: he was going to Stiles' house.

Actually it was more like he couldn't take it anymore. No matter how many times he changed his shirt, it still smelled like Stiles.

He planned to be there waiting by the Jeep just before Stiles left for school in the morning around eight, and at least force him to listen. If that didn't work... He'd try again the next day. He was very stubborn after all. But what he hadn't planned for was a third wheel on his shiny new bicycle of a plan.

Whilst he was hiding across the street in the neighbor's hedge (completely inconspicuous, mind you) he was surprised to see everybody's favorite werewolf: Scott walk out the front door ahead of Stiles, who turned to lock the door behind him.

An unanticipated rush of relief spilled over him when he saw Stiles; it was like that empty box in his chest had something in it again, if that makes sense. The relieving feeling was quickly swallowed up by his feelings of regret, snatching his box away and dumping its contents to the ground, stomping on them for good measure.

Scott said something Derek wasn't listening to, and Stiles laughed as they climbed into the Jeep to go to school. Derek sighed as he watched his ambition drive away with it.

 

________

 

Derek wasn't a dramatic person. Really. He wasn't the type to go looking for abandoned houses or lay on the ground in the forest in the rain when he was feeling upset because it was poetic or something. These things just seem to happen to him. Really.

Anyway, he just laid there in the dirt, thinking about how the limbs of trees looked like veins and how things were probably better this way. He opened his mouth and tasted the rain; it was warm and hit him hard, like the sky was crying angry, frustrated tears.

He'd ran again, this time not getting farther than a few miles before stopping. He wasn't tired- he was emotionally constipated so he punched a tree. It fell. If a tree falls in the forest and there's only an emotionally constipated werewolf around to hear it, does it make a sound? It did, it went crash. He also made a loud sound, cursing when his knuckles broke. He held his hand to his chest and just let himself fall backwards to the ground, leaves scattering away from him like they understood he meant business. That's when it started to rain.

So yeah, these things just seemed to happen.

He stayed there until his knuckles healed and he felt like part of the forest floor, willing mushrooms to grow on him and help decompose his body so he wouldn't have to feel like shit anymore. Okay maybe he was being dramatic.

When it stopped raining and his stomach started growling, forced himself up before a hiker or something stumbled upon him.

He shut the front door quietly behind him, peeled off his soiled shirt and headed to the shower. By shower he meant a rusty tiled hole in the wall with lukewarm water. Afterwards he dressed, sat on the couch with a bowl of spaghetti and acted like he didn't have a tantrum in the woods today. 

Cora descended the stairs shortly after, she must’ve just finished a workout because her skin was sweaty and her hair was up; ponytail bobbing with each step she took. She gave him a look. "Go somewhere?"

"Ran," he chewed nonchalantly.

She knew him, and she knew he never got up before eleven in the morning unless he had to go take care of Stiles. It was 10:26. If she'd guessed right- that he'd gone to see him only for things to go awry, she didn't say it. Instead she narrowed her eyes and twisted her lips before coming to sit by him. "Is that good?" She asked, peering at his food. Peter had made it, so it was to be questioned.

"Good enough," he judged. He didn’t really think about it, he was just really hungry, not having eaten since last night.

"Okay then," she settled, pushing up from the couch to go get herself some. "It's weird," she panted, opening a cabinet to find one of only five bowls they owned. "Peter is a total dick but he- he some...times...is-" Her voice grew faint and Derek looked up just in time to see her fall to the floor like a rag doll without anyone there to stand her up and give her life.

Derek flung himself off the couch and over to his little sister. "Cora?" Derek snatched her face up in his hands and said her name again. " _Cora_?" He smelled blood. He turned her head in his hands and found a gash hidden in her hair on the side of her head. The blood leaked onto his fingers but he didn't notice it; he was listening for her heart. It was beating, and she was breathing. But what had happened to her? Werewolves don’t just pass out and hit their heads on the counter.

He carried her to his bed and laid her down gently, his heart jerking with an ill-timed rush of nostalgia. 

When he was six and Cora was a small baby, he'd ask his mother if he could "please _please_ " hold her. He loved her already because she was so little and cute and his mother would comply, telling him to be very gentle. He would hold her carefully and close to his chest like his mother showed, just watching her. He liked to touch her tiny nose as she stared at him, he most of all loved when she would hold onto his finger with her sweet little ones, even when she was asleep. He knew how to rock her when she cried and even changed her when nobody else was around to do it. He usually always knew what to do with her.

Now she was bleeding, staining his sheets like a crown of roses blooming around her head and he had no idea what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! I was writing and realized everything I wanted to put in this chapter would make it way too long. Sorry for clogging it up with description of the house I thought of on a whim.. (more apologies) I didn't want to describe it to a T or anything, I'll leave that up to you. You might want to remember it for later on~ I know I didn't write Cora to be very.. Cora-y, but I like my version better. Also if I can, I might add a song to each chapter? Just for fun. Thanks for reading this far c:


	12. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there was any chance at all to save her, he was doing it. "How do I do it?" He asked. "By taking her pain?"  
> "There's more to it than that. There's a cost," he turned around, meeting Derek's urgent stare with his calm one. "How important is it to you to be an Alpha?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup y'all, here it isss~ I'm tired so there are bound to be mistakes, enjoy. Btw double gaps mean time lapse. Rhyme!  
> [Here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SfDGZRxPrBw) a song for you. This is the type of music I listen to when I write.

"What do you mean she isn't healing?" Peter barked from the other end of Derek's distressed phone call.

"I mean exactly what I just _said_ ," he snapped. "Look, I don't know what's going on, just get here. _Now_." Derek ended the call and returned to his sister's side.

He fretted over her, brushing loose hair out of her face and checking the bandage he’d made earlier with a piece of fabric he tore from a clean shirt. She’d stopped bleeding but hadn't healed yet, which was where the problem lay. She even smelled off, bitter. He felt her temperature and she was hot, even sweating. He thought she had just worked out but she actually had a fever. He really wished they had a thermometer somewhere, but they were werewolves. Disease was meaningless, fevers were things humans suffered through. So why get a thermometer? He thought about taking her to the hospital but he had no idea what problems that would lead to. Technically Cora had died in the Hale house fire and didn’t exist anymore. He remembered the receptionist from the day he went to the hospital to see Stiles. They just love asking hard questions.

Suddenly Cora’s eyes opened, her pupils constricting and flashing gold for a brief second. She inhaled heavily and coughed, her body quaking. “Derek?” She asked, seeing him hovering at the edge of the bed.

“Cora,” her name fell from his mouth. “How are you feeling?” He held her hand and soothed the top of her knuckles with his thumb.

She gagged and grimaced, closing her eyes again. "Like hell. What happened?" She croaked.

"You fell. But you're okay," he lied. He talked to her in an undertone voice about nothing important for a little while before Peter arrived.

He crouched down on side of the bed opposite from his nephew, taking her hand in his. "Cora," he brushed his hand over her forehead, lifting an eyelid to peek underneath.

"Uncle Peter," she smiled crookedly, looking half awake. Peter glanced up at Derek, exchanging similar disquiet looks. Derek stood and jerked his head for Peter to follow him a ways away so he could fill him in on what had happened.

"I have noticed her acting kind of off lately... But I didn't expect anything like this," Peter observed, arms crossed.

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't notice it?” Peter asked, skeptical. “Oh, well... I guess you have been kind of _busy_ lately," he stabbed. Derek glared but said nothing. He was right. He looked at the counter where she hit her head, where a smack of blood still remained. His stomach flip flopped.

"What's wrong with her?" Derek asked.

Peter looked at his niece, putting a hand on his chin in thought. They didn't say anything for a tense minute, just listened to Cora breathe in and out. She was suddenly so small.

"I'm not sure... But we should give it time," he speculated. "If she gets worse then we'll get that 'veterinarian' who doesn't like me to see her. But for now, we wait. We don't even know what this could be."

"Well what _could_ it be?"

Peter looked genuinely concerned for the first time in a long while, worry pulling at the ridges between his eyebrows. "I have no idea."

 

Friday morning came and Cora was still in Derek's bed. She wasn't any better. Worse, she hadn't spoken coherent sentences since the day before. She would suddenly say Derek's name or their older sister's, even Peter's name once and her eyes would flutter- it was like she was trying desperately to break the surface of her fever dreams only to be dragged down again.

Derek had sat by her all night, falling asleep on and off. He left her side once, to get her a bottle of water. He propped her up gently and poured a little water into her dry mouth, thinking it might help. Her eyes flew open and she pushed away from him frantically, turning her head to vomit black ooze on the ground. His stomach lurched when he heard the splatter of it.

Peter swore under his breath and looked urgently at Derek who still held onto Cora's limp frame.

"Go get the vet."

 

It turned out that he didn't know much more than they did.

"Was she poisoned?" Derek asked while the vet inspected a bit of the sludgy substance Cora had choked up, rubbing it between his gloved thumb and forefinger. Derek wondered in his sleep-deprived brain why the vet wore purple gloves. Did he have to special order them?

"I believe so. But how to reverse the effects..." he tilted his head, apologetic, "I'm at a loss to say."

Derek bit his lip to keep from yelling in desperation and nodded his head tersely.

Deaton came closer and put a hand on his shoulder. "I’m sorry, Derek, but there is nothing I can do."

 

"Careful..." Peter chided Derek after he'd accidentally sapped a little too much pain from his sister.

He huffed in frustration and smeared the worried lines on his face. "Don't worry. I know going too far could kill me."

"That's... not exactly what I meant."

Derek turned to look at him, suspicious. "What do you mean?"

Peter stepped forward, hesitating before he spoke again. "I've heard it's something only an alpha can do, and with good reason," he added quickly.

"Which is?"

"You know normal wolves never abandon an injured member of the pack; they care for it, bring it food from a kill and even regurgitate into the injured wolf's mouth..." he continued imitating a narrator on a Discovery Channel special about wolves before Derek stopped him.

"If you're trying to tell me I can save her, _just tell me_." He was tired and they were running out of time for his uncle's bullshit.

" _I'm telling you_. I've heard it's possible."

"How?"

"It's that spark of power that makes you an alpha. When you take her pain she draws on the power that heightens your senses, your strength, the power that transforms your body. It's the same with what you do for Stiles."

"If I can save Cora-"

Peter held a hand up. " _If_. If. I didn't say it works." He wandered away and crossed his arms. "It could just as easily kill you," he shrugged, Derek watched his shoulder blades hitch from behind.

He really didn't care. If there was any chance at all to save her, he was doing it. "How do I do it?" He asked. "By taking her pain?"

"There's more to it than that. There's a cost," he turned around, meeting Derek's urgent stare with his calm one. "How important is it to you to be an Alpha?"

 

Saturday, Scott and Isaac stood at the foot of Cora's ~~death~~ bed.

They watched her from a completely different world from Derek. Theirs was one where they had each other, had someone to fall back on so unlike Derek, their world wasn't slipping through their fingers like grains of salt and sugar. After Derek fell off this precipice and came out without Cora, there would be nobody there to catch him. Maybe the human testicles standing beside him were his friends, but that wasn't enough. He needed something stronger, warmer, brighter, something that smelled like junk food. But he'd already lost it, right when he needed it most. Now he was just going to fall, and that was it.

"She's dying, isn't she," Isaac spoke quietly. It wasn't a question, it was recognition.

Cora had stopped calling out, she only had the energy to toss and turned her head weakly, black stained lips working for breath. Derek imagined her to be drowning inside, overwrought with blackness and unable to find a way out. God he hoped he could save her, to just see her smile again. Or hear her yell at him for eating her stupid food.

Derek shrugged slightly, fist pressed to his mouth. "I don't know."

"Is there anything we can do?" Scott asked in the same quiet, earnest voice Isaac used.

Derek shook his head. He didn't tell them about Peter's idea, just in case it didn't work or he killed himself trying. "No." Scott sat down beside him. Derek glanced up and didn't see Isaac anywhere. He hadn't heard him leave.

"Isaac went outside, he was uh, upset," Scott explained, staring at the floorboards.

Oh. They sat in silence before Derek figured he should ask, "is Stiles okay?"

Scott blinked, frowning. "Uh, he's fine... Did something happen? I was just with him yesterday..." He trailed, trying to think of whatever Derek might be talking about.

Stiles hadn't told him. That was a relief beyond all measure. Scott didn't seem to know the truth... He for sure wouldn't be here if the opposite was true. Stiles most likely still hated him, but why he (again) kept their fight to himself was almost as mysterious to Derek as to what was killing Cora. He suddenly really just wanted to be alone.

"Go Scott," Derek murmured. "Please."

Scott stood slowly and lingered for a moment, watching Cora, most likely bidding her goodbye silently. He touched Derek's shoulder and left, door shutting with a bang.

 

"Still deciding?" Peter inquired a few hours later. Derek said nothing. "Look, I can understand doing this seeing as you haven't exactly been 'alpha of the year', but think of the consequences. You could die."

Derek looked down at his hands were he sat like a big, devastated rock on the floor. His mind had been made up since Peter presented this idea, but he’d waited just in case… He didn’t know what. Just prolonging the inevitable.  

He was going to sacrifice himself to save Cora.

If this worked, then Cora would live. If he lived, he wouldn't be an alpha anymore. If Stiles ever came around and forgave him, there'd be no use in being close because he wouldn't get to finish fixing him.

All he'd ever wanted since he'd messed Stiles up was to fix him, but he still hadn't. And now he might die and never get to. He'd just made the poor boy's life worse than it ever needed to be. As if to demonstrate his feelings Cora gagged, dry heaving with nothing left inside.

"I don't care. I don't have a choice." Derek started towards the bed and Peter stopped him.

"You always have a choice; it's whether or not you can live with the consequences of your choice."

Derek pushed past him and kneeled by the edge of the bed. He touched Cora's soft face, her chin and brushed her hair behind her ear. Her breathing was shallow, her heart so slow. She really was dying. He held her small hand in both of his, noticing her round fingernails and the odd scar on her pinky where it got crushed in the door when they were younger. He guessed even for them, some things never heal completely. He kissed the back of her hand for luck, and began.

The pull was stronger than any exchange he'd ever done- he felt something being ripped from all corners of him inside, like taking marrow from his bones, reversing the flow of his blood- an altogether staggering _pain_ he'd never experienced. He roared in the agony of it and felt Cora clench his hand with newfound strength before blacking out.

Then there was nothing at all.

 

_______

 

_Derek._

"Derek."

There was something in his mouth. Water? He swallowed, and gagged.

"Derek."

 _Cora_. He opened his eyes.

There she was. Watching him like she always did. He found his voice under his tongue. "You're okay," he breathed, tasting her smell; it was clean, she wasn't sick anymore.

She smiled, the corners of her mouth digging into her cheeks, her eyes crinkling like burning paper. "I'm doing much better than you right now, because of you." She carded her small fingers through his hair, soothing across his cheek and down his neck. He heaved a sigh of relief and settled back against the bumpy brick wall.

"Can I sleep now?" He asked, exhausted.

Cora laughed a little and it was the bandaid for everything. She kissed his cheek bone. "Sure."

So he did.

 

When he woke up it was dark out. He started to move when he felt something on his shoulder. It was Cora, asleep with her head on his shoulder, so he stayed still even though his neck hurt and his butt was numb.

The events of the week fell to him slowly like feathers and rocks, some pieces much heavier and sharp than others. When his puzzle was more or less put together and he was properly awake, he dug his phone from his pocket and checked the time. 5:02 in the morning. No wonder it was still dark out. He got up gingerly, scooping his sister up and laying her on his bed. He smiled at her in spite of the not-so-easy thing he was about to go do, then grabbed his cars keys and left.

Now that his first priority was taken care of, he filed it away with a stamp of completion and moved onto his next: Stiles.

He lied. Even if his eyes were blue instead of red, he wasn't going to let this go. There must be a way to finish this. Being a beta was a world of difference from being an alpha. He felt dull, weaker without that extra spark of power Peter described. But weirdly enough he felt... normal again. He'd been a beta most of his life, even when he was a newborn baby he belonged to a pack: his family.

The drive to the vet's was easy and actually kind of relaxing. He hadn't drove anywhere for a while and there was practically no one on the road at this hour. He stopped at a light and realized the vet might not be there at this time but he didn't care. He'd wait.

It turned out he didn't have to wait, the doctor was in. "We're closed," Deaton warned from behind the counter when the door chime jingled.

"Derek," he straightened up from his paperwork when Derek appeared, surprise plain on his features. "Has Cora-"

"She's okay," he answered. It felt good to say.

Deaton blinked in surprise, obviously not expecting good news. "How?" He marveled.

"Well I almost died," he offered. "I'm not an alpha anymore... Which is why I'm here."

The vet gave him a funny look. "Well I certainly can't help you with that," he said humorously.

"That's not what I meant. It’s Stiles."

Deaton understood and he sat back in his seat, folding his hands in his lap. "Things were going so smoothly I’d almost forgotten." He stood from his chair then, opening the partition for Derek to come through to the back room. Mountain ash, you know. "How far from healed is he?" He asked, the lanyard around his neck jingling when he crossed his arms over it.

Derek shook his head. "Just once more and we would've been through." He didn't mention Stiles' request about his leg. He figured the doctor wouldn't approve of their "speed-healing". "What can I do? Is there any way he'll heal on his own?" He asked, sitting in a chair, a wave of fresh exhaustion coming over him. Giving up alpha status really takes a lot out of a guy.

"I know you said it would've taken just once more, but what is left?" Derek told him about the scars. "Well then this is disadvantageous to us. You know as well as I do that human scars, to the most extent, do not heal. Only an alpha has the power to do something like that."

"But isn't there _something_ I can do? I can't just leave that on him," he said, frustrated.

"I know this is hard. You made a mess and now you want to clean it up," Deaton said in his soft, don't-get-angry-and-break-my-furniture voice. "It's true that he will now always have those marks. It's terribly unfortunate, but at least he's alive to have them. I think he'll understand. You are friends after all. Right?"

Yeah, right. Derek said nothing about it. "He'll always have nightmares," he pointed out.

The vet shook his head. "By now whatever is left in him must be so insignificant, I doubt it would bring a grievance to his day to day life at all. Nor would it get worse. What has he said about it?"

Derek told him what Stiles told him before their fight: he had no daytime hallucinations anymore, only rare clips in his dreams, more common around the full moon. Compared to what had plagued him before, yes this was relatively inconsequential. But it still mattered.

"I know it matters," he agreed. "But it could be worse."

Too bad it was worse. He definitely wasn't about to tell Dr. Deaton (the man who warned him against mind reading in the first place) about their fight.

"What if I become an alpha again?"

He looked at him cautiously. "Derek I highly recommend not charging off to find another alpha and-"

" _But it would work_."

Deaton sighed and looked down in defeat. "Yes."

That was all he needed to hear. Derek got up to leave before the doctor stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "You know I promised your mother I would look after you," he said. The look in his eyes was so earnest that Derek had a hard time not looking away. "That I would advise you to the best of my ability, point you in the right direction." Derek narrowed his eyes. He didn't need to feel more guilty. "This is not the right way Derek. No matter how much you care for Stiles, getting yourself killed for this isn't going to help. Nor is it what he would want."

He wondered if that was true. "I have to try," he reconciled, brushing past him and back to the front door.

Deaton followed. "If you're really going to attempt this, I must tell you that it will be a nothing more than wild goose chase. But I assume you know that."

"Actually, it'll be more like a wild wolf chase," he joked, trying to lighten the mood- a skill he learned from Stiles.

Deaton gave him a look and shook his head again. "I guess there's no use in trying to stop you so I'll ask: when are you going to begin this, 'wild wolf' chase?"

He opened the front door. "As soon as I can."

"I hope you’ll be careful then," was all the advice Deaton offered. “There are plenty of people out there who’d like to see you dead. And here there are plenty of those who don’t. ”

The door jingled when it shut.

He really didn't want to have to do something like this, but he would. He could do it. He just had no idea how.

Now for part two, the hardest part. This time on his way to Stiles' he figured out what he was going to say. He was so worn out he didn't really care if Stiles was angry, as selfish as it sounded. All he wanted was to see him before he left, even if it didn't ease his mind.

He pulled into a space on the curb a block away and got out, thinking of nothing in particular on the walk to Stiles' house. It was still early and the sun was just at the edge of the world, not quite ready to come out yet. The sky was dark blue and thanks to the cloud cover he couldn't see very many stars. Besides the whisper of the wind in the leaves on the trees above him and a random bird getting up way too early, his boots on the cement made the only sound to be heard. The burn of the street lamps stained everything on his sidewalk path yellow. Stiles' window was dark, as to be expected. He walked across the familiar lawn and leapt up to the window. It was open a crack so he was able to pry his fingers inside to open it all the way and slide through, boots meeting the floor with a muffled thump.

There he was, asleep on his bed in the dark room. He slept on his back with arms above his head, blanket in a tangle with his legs. He snored softly with his mouth half open, his nostrils flaring slightly with each breath. Derek sat on the edge of the bed as softly as a ghost, not wanting to wake the picture of candid peace yet.

He cared so much about this kid. What was he? Seventeen? He could be the younger brother Derek never had. He traced the bridge of his turn-up nose and watched it twitch like a rabbit's. He fingered the hem of Stiles' shirt where it bunched around his sternum, rucked up from turning in his sleep. He could count his eyelashes.

"Stiles," he patted his chest lightly, trying to wake him tenderly. He had no idea how he'd react. He really hoped he didn't yell and bring his dad running. He wondered what kind of pajamas the Sheriff wore. " _Stiles_ ," he coaxed again, this time pinching his belly button. Stiles groaned and brushed Derek away feebly with his arms, turning over into him at the same time to protect his belly button.

"Wunna sleep..." Stiles mumbled into his sheets.

"Stiles, wake up, it's me," Derek shook his shoulder.

Stiles was still for a moment then propped himself up on his elbows. "Derek?" He croaked, his voice throaty from sleep. "What're you... Wus happening?" He rubbed his eyes with his fists and yawned deeply. It almost would've been cute if his breath didn't smell.

"Nothing," he lied, "I wanted to see you."

"Oh," Stiles stretched and sat up, getting acclimated with the waking world. "You okay?"

"Are you?"

Stiles yawned again. "I'm just great. I love being woken up before the sun," he grumbled.

"I'm sorry, Stiles," Derek said heavily, weighted with a deeper meaning to it.

Stiles blinked and looked away with his sleepy eyes. "Me too."

Derek faltered. "Why are _you_ sorry?"

"'Cus I yelled at you like that, I mean, you deserved it but really, I..."  He fidgeted with a loose string on his blanket. "Then I was mad and didn't call you and then your sister..." He stopped and looked up, remembering, "Is she..?"

"She's fine."

"Oh thank God," Stiles relaxed, blowing out his cheeks.

"I'm not an alpha anymore," Derek blurted, feeling like he was confessing to making the hole in the ozone and killing the polar bears.

"Oh. Well that's... I'm sorry, bro," he apologized, caring but not really knowing what to say to help.

"I can't heal you anymore," Derek went on, feeling slimy in the pit of his stomach.

"I know. It's okay."

"Don't say that," Derek said angrily. "Stiles, this isn't _okay_. Don't you get that it's not okay that you have to live with that?"

Stiles was quiet. He bit the inside of his lip. "Okay, maybe it's not okay. But things just happen. Like, why should I be angry at you when it's not your fault in the first place? The way I see it dude, your sister, almost _died_ , but you saved her. I don't think I wanna know how because it's probably gross, but whatever. So to me, this is okay," he rambled on, half awake. "And maybe you read my mind," he shrugged, "but I was thinking about it and I totally would've done the same thing! You're like, a mystery. But why did you want to read _my_ mind? I mean, I practically say everything I think," he flung his hands up. "Well maybe not everything," he scratched his nose thoughtfully, "I would probably be in a psych ward right now."

"Yeah, totally certifiable," was all Derek could say.

"So don't worry about it," Stiles shoved him playfully. "I'm going back to sleep," he yawned again, wide enough to split his mouth like Jack Skellington. He settled back down on his belly and pulled his covers up to his waist. "Oh if you want something to eat, just be quiet. Papa Stilinski's sleeping," he mumbled.

Derek muttered in reply and didn't move. He was too busy thinking.

If he didn't go, he'd always feel like he didn't do all he could. It'd never end, he'd never forget and couldn't put it behind him, no matter what Stiles said.If he left he might have a chance. But it would be so hard. Would that be too much for Stiles to just shrug off?

He looked at Stiles, who was already drifting off.

It was a chance he was willing to take.

He stayed there on the edge of Stiles' bed, rubbing gentle circles into his back, slowly feeling whole again. It wasn't until he heard Stiles' heart beat slow down with sleep did he get up and write a note, explaining his decision. He turned and folded his note to place it in plain sight on the bedside table, feeling dumb. He stole a touch on Stiles' face; running his thumb from his temple and down his jawline.

The sun was beginning to wake up as he left and he already felt empty.

 

Cora went along on his wild wolf chase. She said the same thing the vet did, but with far more insults. Even so, she refused to let him go alone and he couldn't sway her. Peter determined he was flat-out "retarded" and told him he’d stay home to most likely cook up trouble. Or throw a party. Derek was thankful for his absence. He needed to kill an alpha, not an asshat.

They listened to Peter's advice, packed their bags, gassed up the Toyota, and said goodbye to Beacon Hills.

Derek wasn't sure if he was ever coming back.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH NO yeah don't worry it's not over. Pshh this is running all over my life and I love it every second. Sorry it was rushed.. Have a good dayeee


	13. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek thought it would've been easy. But the days dragged and flew by in conjunction with fewer leads and no luck. Where he wanted to be and where he was while he was away were two different planets, in different galaxies maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! Sorry for the wait~ Excuse my mistakes and enjoy.  
> [Song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NM92O-DWm8c) for youuu

Emerging from the shade of the forest, the light of the day fell on him in a blinding sheet. He winced, adjusted quickly and kept his pace, stepping over an ant hill. The sky was a brilliant blue, with faint brushstrokes of clouds floating like feathers around the sun. It was hot but he barely noticed, because he was back, and that itself was a cold drink of water.

And he'd found nothing.

Derek thought it would've been easy. But the days dragged and flew by in conjunction with fewer leads and no luck. Where he _wanted_ to be and where he _was_ while he was away were two different planets, in different galaxies maybe.

He checked his phone again, making sure he was going to the right place. Scott wasn't great with directions.

Actually that wasn't entirely true, they _had_ found someone: an omega named Benny. Benny was a gruff, intimidating man claiming to be from Louisiana. He also dismissed Derek's ambitions as "dumber than dirt" and since Derek and Cora were omegas too, why weren't they looking for an alpha to become part of a pack (like he was doing)? Derek told him it was complicated and Cora shrugged. Benny had shook his head and told them he'd had no luck in the area, and had decided to travel East, to Nevada.

The grass of the lacrosse field folded under his feet, leaving stickers on his shoes he'd have to pick off later. He'd never played lacrosse, he always played basketball. He was probably still good at it, even. Then again he was probably good at any sport.

He looked across the field for a sign of them, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. He'd lost his sunglasses somewhere along the way in Trinity county and hadn't had time to get another pair.

There they were, playing lacrosse. Scott tossed the ball with his stick, Stiles lunged and caught it, whooping with his small victory. Derek could see how he limped on his left leg, how it was pale and weak from being in a cast so long. He full-on stumbled after tossing the ball back and put his hands up before Scott could run to steady him, signaling that he was just fine. Derek didn't care to listen to what they were saying, they were funny to watch from a ways away, especially Stiles. Flailing, shouting, bouncing on his feet- he was happy.

Derek forced his apprehensive legs forward until he was close enough to hear their hearts pummeling from exertion, more so Stiles than Scott. He stayed several yards away to be clear of the hazard zone- he didn't really trust Stiles with a metal stick.

Scott saw him first from inside the goal post, straightening up from his crouch and staring blankly at Derek like the first time they'd seen each other. He thought he heard switches clicking in Scott's head before he lit up and smiled wide, all puppy eyes and laugh lines. "Stiles, look," he said, tipping his chin up.

"Nope, no way Scotty," Stiles shook his head, oblivious to who was behind him. He scooped up the ball. "This time I'm gonna score so hard you're gonna take me to dinner. _And_ a movie."

"But, what? Stiles no- dude just turn around!"

"No way bro!" He started to swing when Derek cleared his throat from behind, loud enough for him to hear. Stiles halted in mid-swing and turned around, ball dropping out of his net and bouncing with a thump.

"Derek," Stiles said, like he was recognizing a vocabulary word, his face devoid of emotion.

Derek smiled just below the surface, like a balloon inflating right under his sternum. "Hey," he said. It could've been a silly scene straight out of a movie, except they were terrible actors.

"You're back," Stiles assessed the obvious, walking toward him with his pirate limp. Sweat glittered on his face and bled through his blue t-shirt, like watercolor.

Derek took his hands out of his pockets and continued moving, the way Stiles stared deep into him made him itchy. He wanted to put his hands back in his pockets and ball his fists or something.

Was Stiles angry? Did he not want to see him after he'd left a stupid note, ran away and barely replied to Stiles' countless messages? Good God who wouldn't be angry? He told himself not to be surprised if Stiles sucker punched him. It wouldn't hurt anyway.

They met halfway, about two feet away from each other. Derek started to say something apologetic when Stiles closed the gap and linked his arms around him in a tight hug.

Derek froze and aimed a wide-eyed look at Scott, who only shrugged.

"I missed you," Stiles mumbled, his voice cracking, chin bobbing on Derek's shoulder. He felt his hands splayed on his back, palms pressing down, and for a second all he could feel was that soft pressure. Derek's arms melted after a moment and he used them to hold them together, giving Stiles' back a good pat.

"I missed you too," he said gruffly. He didn't think he'd been hugged since... He couldn't remember before Stiles pulled away.

Stiles' mouth quivered before pulling wide into a crooked smile with his teeth showing, looking at him like he didn't hate him. Like he actually liked him, which was enough to balm Derek's chapped nerves.

"So did you um, find anything?"

"No," Derek said distractedly, caught up in examining Stiles at arms length.

He'd forgotten Stiles was just a few inches shorter than himself, and he looked so different. He looked like he'd actually greeted the sun in past month, having a little color and were those... Freckles? Or more moles? Geez he couldn't remember. His hair was longer too like he needed it cut. His bangs laid in a thick dark wave at the top of his forehead, the rest was a lumpy mess that looked like he just rolled out of bed. And actually... He looked kind of good this way, Derek thought. It flattered him better than his shorter hair. The rest of him was more or less the same, save the way his eyes trapped him.

"I didn't want you to go," Stiles said plainly, without yelling or exaggerating, just honestly.

"But I did," Derek said lamely. Then mended, "I'm sorry."

"Me too." Stiles' eyes wandered to the ground and he worked his jaw uneasily. "But will you stay now?" He looked up and it struck Derek that his eyes were the color of iced tea in the sun. Shiny, cool and honey-sweet and Derek could've drowned in the tow of them before he blinked.

"I will."

"Derek," Scott decided to join them then and stopped in place beside Stiles. "So... I mean, how did it go? Find anything?" Scott asked, squinting in the sun.

Derek shook his head, clearing it and answering, "no."

"Well dude, I'm kind of glad you didn't. You could've died."

"Yeah, it was pretty stupid," Stiles interjected, his sincere and serious mood gone for now.

Derek made a face. "Thanks. So how long does that handicap tag last?" He asked sweetly.

"Very funny. Until 2016 for your information. And nice pants," Stiles poked.

Since it was getting hotter he'd had to let go of the usual black attire he was comfortable with and go with an alternative thing. White short sleeve henley, tight red knee high shorts and sneakers for Christ's sake, which he never wore. He felt naked and displaced without jeans or his boots, or the color black.

"Nice hair," Derek replied, ruffling it. It was soft. Stiles swatted him away so Derek caught him in a choke hold and ruffled it again. He struggled in vain before Derek let him go. His face was red and he tried to frown but laughed, Scott joining in.

"I was just helping Stiles practice for this year's season," Scott explained.

"Is he usually that terrible?" Derek asked him.

Stiles gaped. "I'll have you know I'm only the _third_ worst on the team."

"Last year he was the second worst," Scott clarified.

The bantered a while more before Stiles suggested they get Chinese food because he was starving, which the two werewolves agreed to.

Sitting on the floor at Scott's house with a glorious white box of beef lo mien on the coffee table in front of him, he heaved a huge sigh.

"You okay bro?" Stiles asked with his mouth full of orange chicken. He sat on the floor next to him, watching Derek stare at his noodles. Derek nodded and continued to eat.

"Have I ever seen you eat?" Isaac asked from the couch, curious. "I lived with you and I don't think I have. How is that?"

Stiles grinned at Isaac like they shared a super secret kind of secret. "Weird right?" Derek glowered.

Stiles took a sip of his tea and asked, "So if you aren't an alpha anymore... Does that make Scotty here your alpha?"

Derek shrugged, glancing at Scott who sat next to Isaac. "Not unless I want him to be," he said shortly.

"But wouldn't it be better if you were?" Stiles asked curiously, with Scott and Isaac looking like they were about to tackle him and cover his motor-mouth.

"Yes."

"So then why don't you-"

"So!" Scott interrupted, saving the day. "Do you still live at the loft?" Stiles frowned at him.

"No, we moved."

"Ooh, so you got yourselves a new wolf-lair?" Stiles raised his eyebrows, the avalanche of his attention changing direction.

"Don't call it that," Derek said bluntly.

When he and Cora returned to Beacon Hills a few days ago, they didn't unpack. He really couldn't stand to stay at the loft anymore. It was still too visibly stained with the sight of Cora dying, reeked of his self-loathing and that old ache of missing someone in particular still pinched him whenever he opened the door. So they decided to pack up what little belongings they possessed and moved. Peter complained about the lease or something, but went along anyway to Derek's dissapointment.

Scott asked where it was and Derek told them about it. "It's almost perfect," he said.

"So when do we get to come over and see your 'not a lair'?" Stiles asked, quoting with his hand that wasn't unwrapping an eggroll. "Oh, great idea. Fourth of July is in two days. Actually in just one and a half. Why don't we- the pack and I-" he motioned with his hand to include Scott and Isaac, "come over then? I'll bring fireworks. My dad hates them so Scott and I usually do them every year, right Scott?"

"Uh, yeah I guess," Scott said helplessly.

"So what do you say?" Stiles asked, looking at him in a way that left no room to argue. "I mean, unless you've got other plans..."

He should've said yes, he did in fact, have other plans. Like filling the ice trays or counting the shingles on the roof. Anything. But instead "no, why not" came out of his mouth like a hiccup.

"Cool," Stiles chewed, "we'll be there when it starts getting dark. Right guys?"

  


_______

  


Alright maybe "almost perfect" was a generous way to describe his new home.

They now took shelter in the abandoned house Derek had found the night of his fight with Stiles, about twenty miles outside of Beacon Hills. It was big enough for the family of three to live and lurk in without having to see each other, plus it was on a few acres of private property where no one would bother them. That was the "perfect" part.

The "almost" part came from the wood floors creaking, the dust, the small family of mice living in the walls, the electricity being moody and the lack of air conditioning, et cetera. They kept the air flowing with a few fans so it wasn't stuffy, but it wasn't even close to the wonderful artificial chill of AC. But there was a refrigerator and places to explore, and they'd otherwise adapted to living in "not so spiffy" places so this really wasn't half bad. It just needed some work. Like a lot. He'd actually decided to buy it for that purpose.

Peter did all the financial work (while complaining about how impractical it was) and found that the previous owners had died years ago, leaving the house scheduled to be torn down with no one claim it. He couldn't explain it to Peter, but he just wanted something... stable. Even if they had to fight for territory or run away for whatever reason, he wanted a place close to home he and Cora could always come back to. Something he could work on fixing.

Besides, he liked this place. The sparse old furniture and random antiques everywhere, the space, the silence he could feel when he watched the stars at night. There was a feeling to the place, like it had been thoroughly lived in and had stories to tell, secrets to find. Though hopefully not dead bodies or Satan worship. And he didn't really care about interior design, as long as he had the basics he was good. The ugly wallpapers in each room grew on you.

He'd taken up in the dark and spacious attic, with the vaulted ceiling, the window seat that overlooked the property and queen sized bed he'd made a special trip for that he didn't have to share. He swept the dust and spiders away, washed the wooden floor, even found a string of white Christmas lights and hung them over his bed. Home sweet home.

He sat in his window seat now, brooding about tomorrow night.

He really should've just said no. He hadn't wanted to hurt Stiles feelings, but he just didn't want the three muskatards coming over and setting his house on fire. He watched the olive colored leaves on the tree outback shimmer in the sun, flicking gold briefly like sparks. He spied the old tire swing, abandoned in the grass where he'd accidentally torn it down and it gave him an idea. He trumped down the stairs and stopped in the doorway of Cora's room, rapping on her open door.

Cora's room was one of the spare rooms he'd found, with cherry colored floral wallpaper, wooden four poster bed frame and an antique vanity so old the mirror had started to corrode. She laid on her bed now, holding her hands up and inspect filing her nails.

"Hey," she said without looking his way.

"Want to go to the store?" He asked, leaning on the doorframe.

"Mm, what store?"

"You won't know unless you go."

She have him a sour look before rolling off her bed and slipping on some shoes. "Fine."

 

"Home Depot?" Cora asked after shutting the passenger side door of the car.

"Yep," he said, leading the way to the store entrance.

"Well what, are you some kind of handy man now?" She quipped, pulling her hair into a tidier bun.

He snorted. "No. There's just some things that need to be taken care of around the house. Improvements"

"Right that. Well... they sell air conditioners here don't they? Let's get one."

"You can carry it home and install it if you want," Derek offered. His car only had two seats and the trunk wasn't impressive either. She just shook her head and followed him down the orange aisles.

"What are you going to use that for?" She asked, eyeing the large spool of thick rope he'd picked out.

"A tree swing," he responded, lifting the heavy spool onto his arm with ease. He hoped nobody watching thought anything of it besides _gee, he must work out a lot._ He was going to need the whole spool and he hoped it was okay to take it.

"So by improvements...You meant a swing?"

He nodded, heading off to find more supplies. "Anything you want?" He offered, baiting her like she was a small child.

She thought about his proposal before her lip curled impishly. "Well..."

 

Somehow they managed to fit the swing supplies, a microwave, a window AC unit, and a few plastic trays of marigolds into his Camaro. But that was only because that's all Cora could fit in it.

"What's all this for anyway?" She asked asked as they stood in the shade of the tree outback, inspecting his supplies in the grass.

"Well," he said as he pulled the rope from the spool, "Stiles decided he and the 'pack' are going to come over tomorrow night for the 4th of July. They're bringing fireworks,"  he added, handing her the end of the rope.

"Its already that time huh? That ought to be interesting," she smiled. "So, why this?" She held onto her end of rope as he peered up at the branches, choosing the best one to anchor the swing to.

"Because there was one here before," he said, climbing up the tree trunk. "And those morons will like it," he added, as if this was a favor he was doing them. Cora looked to be the size of his hand from how far up he'd climbed. He wound the rope around a thick branch several times, then tied it into a complicated knot that hopefully wouldn't fail them. Showing off, he grabbed hold of the rope and slid all the way down like a firefighter. He shook his hands out from the rope burn and Cora rolled her eyes.

"Smooth," she commented.

"Hand me the seat."

She picked up a seat sized wooden circle with a hole in the center. She turned it over in her hands and her smiled faded. "Derek, I'm sorry," she began, handing him the seat.

"For what?"

"Stiles," she sighed.

He took the seat from her and began threading the rope through the hole. "Don't be," he said.

She'd apologized like this a few times in the past month, feeling partially responsible for what had happened.

"None of this is your fault, Cora. Hell, it's nobody's fault." He said, tying a heavy knot at the end and leaving a long piece for pulling. "We can't change it now anyway, so don't apologize," he finished the conversation. The swing hovered about four feet off the ground, for optimum swinging height capabilities. He gave it a human weighed tug and it bounced back easily, no fault.

"Want to test it?"

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so I got distracted watching Breaking Bad, and tried my hardest not to say "yo betch!" in the chapter. And yes, I totally included Benny from supernatural in here. He was so handsome..


	14. Catching Fire (or something)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn't deny that things felt very different now, since he'd come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally deleted this then had to go back in and re-edit it faahhhhh-- :c new chapter will be here soon!  
> [Here's](http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=kNQASi28tIg) a lovely song for you. One of my recent favorites.

"You know, you two finally did something right," Peter drawled from the kitchen in his lofty voice, referring to the the new microwave he was using to warm up his coffee. He was crazy. Hot coffee on a day like this would just curdle his brain further.

"Mhm." Cora hummed, busy stirring sugar into her coffee at the dining room table, closest to air conditioner whirring in the window. It was her idea to buy it so she got full custody of it and took it everywhere with her. They really needed to get more. "So you're saying, saving my life wasn't something you'd approve of?"

"She's got you there," Derek muttered, drinking his cold coffee at the table next to her. He never drank his coffee hot; he liked it best cold, with milk, and strong enough to unclog a drain. Maybe he was just cold blooded, like a reptile. Could you imagine a lizard enjoying a hot beverage?

Peter rolled his eyes in perfect little (infuriating) loops from years of practice."You two just can't take a joke. You're too dramatic." He pulled a chair out from the table with a soft screech and joined them. Cora played on her phone and Derek was busy brooding, scratching a triskelion into the table top with a claw. He had no deeper explanation for why he was regretful about tonight, he just was. He could see it now: the house would burst into flames just like the Weasley's in that one Harry Potter movie Stiles forced him to sit through.

"So when are the three stooges getting here?" Peter wondered aloud.

"Should be anytime soon," Derek said mostly to the table.

"You know I haven't had any fun with fireworks since I was your age," Peter told him, smiling to himself in a way that made Derek uneasy. "We used to have so much fun when you were kids."

"Well just try not to kill anyone," Cora suggested. "Or burst into flames. Again."

Peter smiled warmly and ruffled her hair. "You are just the sweetest thing."

Derek was picking flakes of white paint from under his nails when he heard a familiar engine turning onto the only road that led to the house; a short, unnamed dirt road that cut into forest, very easily overlooked unless you were actually trying to find it. He stood up and excused himself outside, leaned on the porch railing and soon enough he spied a pair of round headlights cruise along the bumpy road. They pulled into park next to the Camaro on the side of the house, scaring a mockingbird from it's nest in the tall grass. The engine died and the boys hopped out one after the other, slamming their doors and looking around like three aliens investigating the particular patch of earth they landed on.

"Hey," they said one after the other, walking up the porch steps to stand in front of him.

"Hey."

The tallest looked a little different from his usual cocky, aloof, gullible self. He'd noticed it the day they all ate lunch together but he still couldn't place it. Scott was always the same: goofy smile, crooked chin and "everybody play fair" demeanor. Stiles seemed different every time he saw him. Of course he wasn't, really. It was a strange thing he couldn't pin down or understand.

"So how goes it?" Stiles asked. Derek could almost taste how enthusiastic he was to be here. _He's weird_ , he thought to himself. Then again they all seemed excited and he guessed that was a good thing instead of being the opposite so _maybe I'm just weird_ , he thought.

"It's going," Derek said. "Come on," he opened the front door for everyone, flicking Stiles' earlobe and shutting the door behind.

"If it isn't my favorite little puppies," Peter greeted when they conjoined in the diningroom, "oh and you've even brought Derek's chew-toy, how thoughtful. He loves the ones that squeak."

"Gee yeah, hi," Stiles waved shortly, rubbing his ear. "Great to see you too." Peter smiled at him fondly. Or predatorily. It was hard to tell.

"Nice to see you guys again," Scott sighed good-naturedly, indifferent to the jeering.

"This place is... interesting," Isaac decided, staring all around. "I like how... old it is," he put simply.

"Yeah, do you guys even like, have a T.V?" Scott asked, not rudely.

"Nope," Cora said, "but when have we ever?"

"We do have a microwave though. Next best thing." Peter said, like he was implying that they had some sort exquisite luxury, like a jetpack or something.

"Yo, do you all drink coffee this late? Is it a werewolf thing?" Stiles squinted, looking to Scott for an answer. Scott shrugged, bending his lips.

"It's a nocturnal thing," Peter replied, slurping obnoxiously.

"That reminds me, I brought us something."

"Stiles..." Scott warned.

Stiles exhaled loudly. "I know I know, geez give me some slack okay?" He said quickly, eyes rolling. Derek wasn't really sure what he could be talking about, but maybe he didn't really want to know. "Werewolves. So what, are we ready?" He asked eagerly, gripping the back of Derek's chair and bouncing.

"Well, the sun's still shining out there buddy," Derek said, getting jiggled.

"Oh right."

The slice of setting sun still glowed from the west, soaking everything in its reach melon-orange. It wasn't a hard thing to miss. Unnamed buts chirruped and chattered from every direction. Out here they never seemed to stop, but sang different songs for each part of the day.

"How about we show you around?" Cora piped up, filling the gap in the conversation and surprising her brother.

"I don't really think they-" Derek started, before the boys trampled his protest with words of enthusiasm. Great.

Cora led the pack around the house, starting with the cellar and working upwards. The group tailed her, _ooh_ -ing and _ahh_ -ing respectively.

"Still haven't watched Star Wars?" Stiles asked from in front of Derek, picking his shirt away from his skin. The dining room may have been cool, but the rest of the house was stifling; the heat and residual dust and who knows what else clung inside your lungs if you breathed too deeply.

"Nope," Derek replied, speaking to the baby hairs on the back of Stiles' damp neck as he helped him maneuver up the stairs.

He couldn't deny that things felt very different now, since he'd come back. Even though Stiles had pretty much forgiven him for everything (for unknown reasons), it still felt wrong to Derek and he wasn't about to forget anything. It felt so good to touch him, smell him, press him upwards with a hand on the small of his back. To take care of him again like he used to. He wanted to joke about crusty old people who have those fancy chairs that glide them up the stairs, but decided to keep it to himself. In lieu of his smart ass remark he asked, "How's therapy going?"

"Uh, good. It's okay. I mean it's difficult and boring and my physical therapist is overly enthusiastic, but yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But I'm doing better."

Derek asked what kinds of things he did for his therapy. "Uh, like walking, strength exercises, walking up stairs," he said in a dumb voice and laughed. "Scott was helping me the other day on the field, but I don't think I'll be in shape for this season." He sighed, crestfallen as they reached the top step.

And he could've been here to help. Derek's heart shriveled from a grape to a raisin and all he could do was squeeze Stiles' shoulder tenderly. "I'm sorry."

"And this is a spare room," Cora presented, opening a door to reveal a bare room with peeling blue wallpaper and a broken ceiling fan. _Ooh. Ahh_. "And that," Cora turned and pointed to the stairs that led to the attic, "is the attic. Derek's cave."

"Spooky," Isaac noted, peering up the dark stairs. It was a pretty adequate description. "Can we see?"

"Nope," Derek chirped, dropping his hand. "It's getting darker, let's go outside." He took over as tour guide and herded them to turn around and follow him. "I have a surprise for you guys," he added, trumping back down stairs and out the back door.

"A swing?" Scott asked, springing off the porch and somersaulting through the grass.

"Yeah," Derek folded his hands behind his back, feeling weird that he made this now.

"You wanna go Isaac?" Scott asked, pushing the swing towards him playfully.

Curly caught it and twisted it in his long hands thoughtfully. "Nah," he let go. "I get motion sick kind of easily," he winced. Everyone gave him a funny look. He shrugged. "I'd rather not embarrass myself."

"Well then Stiles, you go," Scott pushed the swing to his buddy.

Stiles pushed it away. "Ha no, thank you. Do you see the gimpy noodle I'm walking on? It's my leg, that I'd like to not _break again_."

"I'll push you," Derek offered, stepping closer and catching the swing.

"Oh well then definitely not," he shook his head. "I'll blast off like Team Rocket. Anyone remember Pokémon?"

"Come on Stiles."

"I'll fall."

"I'll catch you."

Stiles groaned. "Fine. How do I even get up on this thing? I've never- whoa hey!" Derek picked him up under the arms and he quickly hooked onto the rope like a scared monkey, curling his legs in tight. Derek jerked on the pull rope beneath the seat and Stiles yelped. "Oh jesus..." He croaked.

"Just hold on," Derek held back a smile and walked backwards until he could go no further, and flung him.

He screamed girlishly and the branches above him swooned with a rustle of hundreds of trembling leaves as he flew through the air.

"Shut uuuuuup!" Stiles yelled as he breezed by Scott and Isaac, who had bursted into laughter. After he boomeranged a couple times he kicked his feet out experimentally, losing a shoe.

When he slowed down enough, Derek caught him and stopped him easily, cupping his hands over Stiles' knees. "Now was that so bad?" Derek asked and leaned toward him out of his bad habit of trying to intimidate people when he was actually playing around.

"Awful. Give someone else a turn," he lied, his heart scrambling, hair curled up from the woosh of swinging. His hands and arms were still wound white around the rope and the hair on his arms had risen with goosebumps.

"If you say so." He backed off and leaned over to grab the rope again.

"What're you- I said nonono- aa _ahhh_!" Stiles had zero room to protest before he was sent whirling again.

They tortured Stiles until he was laughing along and had lost both of his shoes. Scott and Isaac were in on it until they started wrestling in the grass over a reason Derek hadn't ascertained and by that time, Stiles insisted it was acceptably dark enough out to light fireworks.

Derek hitched his arms under Stiles' armpits again and he gracelessly fell back into Derek.

"Oof."

"Sorry," Stiles said, each of his ribs rubbing into Derek's chest. It almost tickled. "Oh, my shoes." They found his sandals and made way out front.

"Yo anyone gonna help?" Stiles called, awkwardly wrestling a large box of fireworks out of the back of the Jeep. Derek ushered him out of the way and grabbed it himself, troubled by how full it was. Then he noticed two more full boxes in the backseat, just as big as the one he held.

"We're you planning on competing with the festival?" Derek asked seriously.

"Hey I actually had to consolidate here," he frowned.

"Sure."

"Waaait," Stiles stopped him before he could walk away. "Where are my bros? The fun is about to begin."

Derek said he thought they were still by the swing.

"They're gonna miss all the fun." Stiles called for them a few times and they raced from the dark behind the house. Isaac's face was pink like he'd been in the snow, and Scott ran a hand through his inky mess of dark hair, fixing it.

"Geez I thought we lost you two. What were you doing back there?"

Isaac looked to nearly wet himself and Scott froze. "We uh..."

"Nevermind," Stiles shook his head once. "Hurry up and grab the boxes for me," he bossed, lumbering over to sit by Cora on the porch.

Derek watched them relax and share a furtive glance before reaching into the Jeep for the last two boxes. He couldn't help but notice Isaac's abused bottom lip or the slowly healing bruise just under the crook of Scott's jaw or even the way they stunk like... And suddenly all of it clicked and Derek had felt like his brain tripped over something in plain sight, like a neon sign or an airplane. He was fairly surprised, but he said nothing, thought nothing else about it and followed Stiles.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Peter berated as he watched Stiles attempt to open a package of safety lighters with his teeth.

"Uh coss I duh," he slurred, tearing the plastic open. "See? Safety lighters. I _do_ know what I'm doing." Peter smiled then turned away and scowled as if to say, _yeah I'm sure you do, moron_.

"Oh!" Stiles dug through one of the boxes and triumphantly withdrew with a bottle of Captain Morgan. He made an gleeful face, unscrewing the lid and sniffing it. Derek groaned internally. This must've been what

Scott was worried about. He could hear the amber colored rum from where he sat, sloshing inside the glass with a tinkling sound. It was two thirds full.

"Just be careful, dude," Scott warned again. "I know how you get... And remember we have to be home before eleven. We've got work in the morning."

"Don't forget me," Isaac nodded in agreement, apparently an employee at the vet's now.

"I will, bro I- hey!" Stiles protested when Peter snatched the bottle from him, sploshing a generous amount into his coffee mug.

"Scott is right," Peter said, screwing the lid on, "we don't need your Sheriff daddy to hunt us down like dogs when you can't hold your alcohol. Here," Stiles snatched it back protectively and glared at him before he disappeared.

"Your uncle is such a..." Stiles grappled for the correct word.

"Lunatic?" Cora offered.

"Kinda..."

"Pain in the ass?" Derek ventured.

"More so that," he decided, snapping his fingers.

"I can hear you idiots!" Peter called from what sounded like the roof.

"So... what did you bring?" Derek asked, watching them dig through the boxes on the front porch and sort them into groups. The colorful plastic wrappers glinting in the glow of the porch light that was speckled with tiny bugs.

"Well we've got safe little kid ones, moderately safe medium ones, and big unsafe ones, my favorite," he said as he gestured to each.

"What does a... _Sizzle Drizzle_ do?" Derek asked, reading the label of one from the 'medium' pile. These names...

"It just like, sprays sparks up. A fountain. Here let's do it," he stood up wobbly and made his way into the front yard to find a good spot to light the fountain.

"Not under the tree!" Derek called.

"Oh, right! I knew that!"

Cora cocked an eyebrow at Derek and he made a weary noise behind his tongue.

"Okay, here we go," Stiles fumbled with the lighter before catching the firework fuse. Tiny sparks popped from the wick and Stiles backed up quickly as he could, standing at Derek's side. "Watch, watch," Stiles elbowed him, as if he wasn't already looking at the freaking thing. Suddenly a backwards shower of golden crackling sparks erupted from the little green box, lighting up the dark around them.

"Those aren't loud, but they're cool," Stiles said, taking a sip from his bottle and coughing.

He did a doubletake. "When did you even get-"

Stiles winced, swallowing the spicy aftertaste Derek could smell. "Because I'm a wizard, Derek!" He quipped in a raspy English accent. If this was him sober Derek was dreading what he might be like toasted. "Sorry," he quelled, "I'm just excited. What do you have?" He asked, and Derek showed him the firework he picked: _Wolf Howl_.

"Ha, I knew you'd pick that, s'why I bought it," Stiles shouted over the noise of something Scott had lit that screeched and cracked repeatedly.

"Here I'll do it." Derek took the lighter from him, lit it beside the other spent fireworks and backtracked. A geyser of colorful fire spewed up, whistling loud and obnoxiously. He raised an eyebrow. "Cool."

After that, the five of them exhausted the 'medium' pile and went on to playing with the 'safe little kid ones'. Sparklers, smoke bombs, snap n pops and little cars that shot out sparks and rolled. Peter even joined in, trying his hardest to hit Scott with a burst from a Roman candle but Scott was too fast. Everyone lit sparklers and waved them around like idiots, drawing disappearing shapes in trails of fire.

The "big" pile was a collection of mortars: the iconic ones that _make_ the 4th of July. The huge bursts of color in the sky, with the resounding _boom_ you felt in the marrow of your bones to the tips of your toenails. Derek caught a photograph of a moment when he glanced at Stiles just as one of these mortars lit. He was looking up and _BOOM_ it was like his eyes literally glittered blue over brown, his skin pale blue, flushed with excitement and he looked so... But then the light died and he blinked and it was just one of those fleeting, crisp pictures he wanted to put in a mental scrapbook. "What's up?" Stiles asked, eyebrows perking.

"Oh, nothing."

"I told you I hate that!"

When the time came for the troupe to go home, Stiles was acceptably crocked even though most of the rum had been passed amongst everyone. He was annoying, though inexplicably endearing just how stupid he was drunk; up until just about now.

"Come on Stiles," Scott coaxed, opening the door to the Jeep. He'd must've already swiped the keys from Stiles' pants' pocket earlier, correctly assuming Stiles would be in no position to drive by this time. "We're gonna take you home and you can sleep it off."

"Noh," Stiles refused, shaking his head, like they were offering him a cookie with raisins in it. If it was possible, he was even chattier. He'd approached Derek maybe five times in the past half hour just to blather about Star Wars and cartoon conspiracy theories before wandering off or falling. "You guys go on, I can toootally walk home," he floozed.

"Stiles, you can't walk home. Come get in, we'll take you," Isaac all but pleaded with him.

"I'll take my _foot_ home in your _ass_ , Newton," he slurred, attempting a witty insult.  
"Stiles," Derek growled, but he ignored Derek and wandered onto the porch. It would've been funny but Scott and Isaac looked at Derek, quiet desperation plain on their faces. Derek slumped a bit and sighed, long and weary. "I'll take him home later."

Stiles yodeled, straddling on the porch railing like it was a horse. He wasn't paying attention.

"You sure?" Scott asked, like he was questioning Derek's sanity. He was questioning it himself, lately. But they were already halfway in the Jeep and didn't seem too worried about it, so Derek wasn't going to worry about it either. How hard could it be?

"I'm sure."

He watched them drive away slowly and waved once before they disappeared through the woods.

"Who's taking my baby?" Stiles shouted before losing his balance and falling with a thud.

This ought to be a challenge. Derek stretched his arms out behind his back, feeling stiff and tired. "You're slow."

" _You're_ slow," Stiles mimicked from the ground where he laid with his face in the dirt.

"Do you need me to mute you? Forever?" Derek threatened, standing over him. He felt like a mom, firing idle threats at her toddler to make them behave.

"But 'm not a TV," he giggled, rolling over. Other than a scuff of dirt on his forehead, he looked fine. Though he wasn't sure about internal damage.

"Then shut up." He didn't want to be harsh but he liked Stiles much better when he was lucid enough to think of a good comeback. It wasn't like Stiles would even _remember_ half of this night tomorrow while he nursed a hangover. He hoisted him up and prodded him through the house and into the bathroom.

"So... can I like, see your room?" Stiles asked. He sat on the edge of the old claw-foot porcelain tub as Derek rubbed his face with a wet towel.

He wiped away some dirt that had gotten on his eyelid. "Why?"  
"Well 'cos it's like... I gotta know. Can you shooow me? I wanna know about the werewolf Derrrreck," he sang like that old song from the Tarzan movie.

Derek resisted the strong urge to hit himself in the face. But wait. "Can I take you home afterwards?" He bargained. Again, another trick you'd use on a toddler.

"But we haven't even had dinner together yet," Stiles held his hand over his heart like he might faint from the audacity of Derek's offer.

Derek put the rag on the sink and captured Stiles' full attention by holding his shoulders. "Stiles."

"Hmm?"

"Don't make this difficult. Do you want to see my room or not?" He strung the words out, pronouncing each one simple enough for a toddler to grasp.

Stiles smiled wide and mischievous, like the Chesire cat but with his mouth closed. "Yes."

"Okay."

Derek all but carried Stiles up the stairs because the kid was about as coordinated as a moose ballerina at the moment. He opened the creaky old door to his room and dragged him in.

"So this is it," Derek introduced lamely, making sure the door shut with a click of the knob. "Satisfied?"

Stiles said _wow_ like a little kid walking into Disney world for the first time. "Oh ho, _now_ were talkin'." He made a beeline to the bed, did the unspeakable and fell back on it, gray duvet rippling around him as he bounced.

"Stiles..." Derek groaned. He'd just made his bed, and there was no open invitation to flop on it. He reasoned with himself that it was only fair; he'd been in Stiles' tiny twin bed a dozen or so times. And Stiles smelled good anyway. Well not _good_ , but familiar.

"This is great," he spread his arms above his head and sighed lavishly. "Oh cooool..." He marveled, immediately captivated by the string of Christmas lights hanging low above the bed. He grabbed it, changing the fall of shadows in the room.

"Hey be careful with- what did I just say?" Derek snapped when Stiles tugged and unplugged the lights, dropping the room into darkness like a nickel in a wishing well.

Stiles didn't reply. Good, Derek thought. Maybe total darkness would sober him up somehow. Neither moved to plug the lights back in and Derek had already adjusted to the dark anyway. He leaned back against the door, expelling a heavy breath. He was kind of worn out.

He guessed this night hadn't gone as bad as he could've imagined. He'd had fun. True, his best friend was now very drunk and messing up his bed but Isaac _did_ happen to catch his shirt sleeve on fire and dance around, so that kind of made up for this.

He watched the rise and fall of Stiles's chest, waiting for him to say or do something spontaneous when his body suddenly hitched and he stopped breathing with a small noise like a gasp. His hands clenched in the duvet at his sides and he kicked against the floor feebly like he was trying to back away.

"No no no..." He moaned. He was frightened.

Derek leapt up to see him squeezing his eyes shut, his forehead wrinkled as he cried out desperately. Derek said his name and grabbed his shoulders a urgently, rougher than he should've to try and snap him out of it.

"Nonono stop!" He shouted weakly with a crack in his voice. Now Derek was scared. Stiles fought and thrashed against him, trying to break away from the heavy restraint of Derek's hands pinning him at the torso.

"Shh! Shh, Stiles- Stiles it's me!" Derek cowed him, really hoping nobody burst through the door and tried to help. He could handle this, just like he did last time.

Stiles whined once softly, but settled down. He slowly let his eyes open, focusing as he took in Derek hovering above him. His eyes were large and dark, and he wasn't sure if Stiles could even see him. So he spoke to him instead.

"Shh... Look," Derek soothed. "I'm here, it's me. It's me."

Stiles breathed again. "Oh yeah... hey..." His eyes fell shut and his body relaxed. Derek loosened up on him in relief and started to pull him up but he refused.

"No no no," he shook his head normally this time, just being stubborn. "I'm good here. I'm... good," he sighed, head lolling to the side.

Derek leaned over so close he almost toppled onto Stiles and cupped the boy's face in his hands. "Stiles, you're not good here. You need to go home," he consoled, stroking his thumb over the warm flesh of his cheekbone. His hands were dark on his face, and damp. Was Stiles crying? He couldn't tell if his palms were just sweaty.

"It's time to go home, okay?" He said again. There was a pause where all to be heard were the crickets outside and the heart underneath his own. Then he thought of something. "What about your dad?"

Stiles pouted, his closed eyes crinkled. "Uh oh," he said slowly, pronouncing the "uh" and the "oh" with a pause in between. He could taste Stiles's breath as it went. "I dunno."

"You don't know."

"I dunno," he repeated. More rum breath. "'Mm tired."

Derek sighed, feeling his own panic ebb. "I know. Come on," He pulled him up and cradled him in his arms like a little kid, his head bumped against Derek's shoulder. He carried him down the stairs carefully, making sure he didn't bump his feet on anything.

"That's precious," Peter cooed, lurking in the hall.

Derek was too tired to reply so he ignored him. And his hands were full so he couldn't sock him in the face anyway.

He wondered if Stiles would remember any of this at all. He really didn't want him to, but the more he thought about it, he'd have to tell him. How would he tell him that he shouldn't get wasted anymore because it causes a tiny piece of werewolf "voodoo" to resurface and cause him to have more of the hallucinations they both believed were gone forever?  
Yeah. Sounds good enough.

Sitting in the driver's seat, he reached across and clicked Stiles' seatbelt for him because he was already asleep. As an afterthought he leaned closer and reclined his seat for him so he could lay down.

"Haha... Spoons," Stiles giggled in Derek's ear.

Derek sat back in his seat, looked at the dopey smile on his sleeping face and chuckled. He guessed he'd be okay, but now he knew he was going to have to tell him about this tomorrow. He really didn't not expect the night to turn out like this...

"Forks," Derek countered, and started the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shet I've almost gotten 10,000 hits? Holy shet wut in the world thisiscrazy THANKYOU GUYS!!! Btw, Breaking Bad Jesse P feels? Anyone catch that? Ok...


	15. Go take a hike.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> {insert good summary here}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY MOTHER it's here! So sorry. I actually was constantly working on this for two weeks... My brain just wouldn't work. But I happened to make it extra long c; Sorry for any mistakes~  
> Finding a good, relateable song is kinda hard, but I like this [one.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UbEVzpdOlVg)

"So I fell off the porch?” Stiles asked for the second time, pushing a thin tree branch out of his way.

"Yep," Derek answered him again, walking beside him. It was still funny. "You even rode the banister like a cowboy."

"I did?"

Derek nodded, "and yodeled."

Stiles groaned. "Well that explains the headache," he sat on a large rock and grimaced. His hair was still damp from his shower this morning, and smelled like his shampoo. Too bad he was already sweaty, and after only thirty minutes of this. He wiped his brow and swallowed some water from his plastic bottle.

"Mm nope, that's your hangover," Derek mused.

The morning (this morning) after the Fourth of July, Derek had planned to take Stiles on a hike. First he called Stiles up to check on him. He plucked his phone screen for Stiles' contact and listened to five and a half monotone rings before the kid picked up.

"Hullo?" Stiles had answered, his voice sounding sort of rusty and garbled, like he'd been dragged out from under a sunken ship.

"Good you're alive," Derek smiled a bit, he couldn't help it.

"Not really..." He muttered, and Derek heard the unmistakable sound of a toilet flush on the other line. "What's up?"

"Have anything planned today?"

"Well, no not really but I-"

"Great. I'll be there in an hour, so be ready to go when I show up."

"Go where? I'm not- Derek wait-"

"Wear boots," Derek warned, and hung up before Stiles could talk himself out of it.

He'd been meaning to take a hike anyways, so for Stiles he chose a shorter, familiar path in Beacon Hills Reserve. Plus it doubled as a punishment for Stiles, hiking through the woods while hungover.

It was sweltering as usual, just like any other day in July. Stiles sat down panting on a rock that marked the halfway point, re-tying the lace of his hi-top sneaker because he didn't own boots. He tried to lean back and get comfortable before giving up, cursing and insulting the rock's mother.

"Dude," he chuckled, then winced like even laughing hurt. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"A few reasons," Derek began, and hopped up to grab a low hanging branch and dangle a few inches off the ground. "First one," he held up his index finger, still hanging on with one arm.

Stiles gaped slightly and swallowed, staring at his arm. "Dude your arm is huge."

Derek cleared his throat. "Listen. One: you were stupid."

"Uh..." His eyes flicked up to meet Derek's. "Okay so?"

" _So_ , you promised you wouldn't do anything stupid, remember?"

Stiles blinked then made an O with his mouth, remembering the first day he and Derek spent the afternoon together. Before Derek left he made him pinky promise that he wouldn't do anything stupid, almost crushing Stiles' little finger in his own grip to make him remember.

Stiles flexed his pinky finger somberly and made a noncommittal noise. "You're one to talk."

Derek ignored that. "Two: this helps with your therapy."

Stiles scoffed. "Oh so making me hike through the friggin' woods in ninety _billion_ degree heat when I can barely walk is helping me with my therapy, got it. You are such an outstanding help. Thanks. I could be playing Call of Duty right now and eating Doritos. _That's_ therapy."

"And three: there's something I need to tell you."

Stiles' sarcastic flame was still hot. "What? You dragged me out here to kill me and make my skin into a coat to get back at me for all the wolf jokes? You can do better than that-"

"Stiles serious," Derek dropped to the ground with a crunch of boots on leaves and stood over him, waiting. Stiles snorted and looked up at him, reeled in for now. "What is it?"

Here goes nothing. Derek paused, then sat down beside him with a sigh, close enough to touch hips. "Last night you kind of..." He searched for the right word. "Relapsed."

Stiles turned up an eyebrow. "What? What do you mean? I know I got wasted but it's not like I'm an alcoholic-"

Derek waved him off. "Not that. You hallucinated again."

Stiles stilled beside him. "I did?"

Derek nodded. "I didn't think you'd remember it," he sighed.

"I don't," Stiles shifted a bit, pinching his fingers absently. "I kind of remember... Christmas lights?" He said it slowly like a question, sliding his fingers over the rough surface of the rock and drawing invisible patterns. "But I don't know if that was just a dream or something."

Derek told him about how he'd unplugged them in his room.

"Oh... Hold up hold up, I was in your room? You said you didn't want anybody in there," he said, bewildered.

"Well you-- you asked so I showed you," Derek said shortly. Stiles started to grin like he was given a special award. "But serious, Stiles. Did it ever happen while I was gone?" He asked seriously, on the edge of urgency. He needed to know. Because the more he thought about it, it could've happened because they were together and that was somehow not good. How could it be?

Stiles' eyes widened a bit, being put on the spot so suddenly. "Uh, no. Actually not at all, while you were gone. Doc said I was fine."

His stomach fell. "Did you drink at all?"

"No, not really. Beer at Scott's Uncle's while I was there, but not drunk. Definitely never as bad as last night," he frowned. "My dad was pretty um... Yeah he was mad. And I can't even remember getting home.""

Derek relaxed a little. "Yeah. I'll never do that again."

Showing up on the Stillinski's front doorstep around 11pm really wasn't how he wanted to greet Stiles' father again.

"Hi Sheriff," he said as respectfully as he could without sounding like a cadet.

Papa Stilinski stared at him with a surprised expression that seemed to follow the worn leather wrinkles on his face. He probably used it too much with Stiles around. Not to mention he was still grappling with the whole "supernatural creatures exist" thing. "Uh... Hi, Derek." He pointed to Stiles. "I'm guessing that belongs to me." He opened the door wider for Derek to step inside, and shut it.

Derek stood there like a statue in the foyer, all but internally screaming. He wasn't scared of this man in any way shape or form; he was about as dangerous as a houseplant. But the situation had his nerves tangled up. This man didn't need another reason to not trust him, yet Derek had just walked through the front door with one over his shoulder.  

Stiles' father had smacked his lips and asked, "so what was it this time?" His voice was tired, good-natured. "Jack? Jäger? Fireball?"

Derek exhaled a laugh, relieved the man wasn't reaching for a 9 millimeter. "Captain."

"He's alive right?" Sheriff asked, crossing his arms over his plain shirt. It was weird to see him in civilian-style. He was even less menacing.

Stiles stirred a bit against him then, muttering something. "Yeah, I think."

The sheriff sighed. "Well just put him down wherever. I'll uh, I'll deal with him tomorrow." Derek nodded and laid him down on the couch, cradling the back of his neck before grabbing a throw pillow to lay under his head. Stiles muttered again and wormed into the cushions. Derek watched him for a second before realizing Stiles' father was watching him.

"I guess I'll see you around," Derek bid him goodbye gruffly and made his way to the door.

"Thank you, Derek."

Derek had paused, doorknob half turned in his hand and turned around. "No problem. He's not very heavy," he shrugged

Sheriff blinked before shaking his head. "Right. Well, thanks."

Derek nodded, and left feeling light-headed.

"It wasn't exciting or anything," Derek said. "He didn't pull out a samurai sword and cut me a new one."

"Dang," Stiles snapped his fingers. "But..." He said, face pulling into a mask of concentration. "Last night- it probably just happened because I was drunk. Right? Alcohol funks with your brain so it makes sense right?" He looked at Derek then like he needed him to say yes, even if it wasn't true. He was scared. It let Derek believe maybe he was thinking the same thing.

His ribs curled inward at the sound of Stiles' heart beating louder. So he said, "yeah," and snapped off his stare like a kit-kat-bar.

Stiles seemed to relax the tight set of his jaw and drop his shoulders, but his small smile of relief wilted. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I shouldn'tve done that. You're right, it was stupid."

Derek didn't say anything, but reached up and rubbed Stiles' back up and down slowly. He couldn't feel the scars but he knew where they were, what they looked like. "Well, now you know."

"Yeah," Stiles agreed weakly.

Before he could get too comfy, Derek stood up after a minute and slapped Stiles' leg. "Come on. We've got ground to cover."

Stiles squinted at him. "Seriously? I thought we were done! We reached the rock of completion and everything."

"That isn't a thing. Come on, we'll go another half hour." Derek peeled his sticky shirt over his head and stuck it in his backpack. "And then I'll carry you back," he taunted.

Stiles dropped his jaw. "Like hell you will," he muttered, standing up.

"Ah, Snow White awakens."

Stiles punched his side with feeling, but to Derek it felt like a pet. "Ow," he shook his hand out and pulled his lips between his teeth. "Quit eating gorillas for breakfast." Derek laughed.

Stiles had to stop once for another break, but they made it back to the car in just over an hour. Derek had to hand it to him; aside from the complaints and smart remarks, he was doing well. He'd been through this kind of rehabilitation himself a few times growing up; not the god-awfully slow human way of course, but he knew how it felt.

Once when he was nine, he'd been playing with his older sister Laura in the woods when he fell from a steep ridge and badly broken his arm. He could still remember how the bones of his elbow and beyond shattered magnificently and how they crunched so grotesquely it rang in his ears. Fortunately it healed quickly, but unfortunately it had healed incorrectly. So his arm had to be re-broken and set back into place properly. That was one of the only few times in his life he'd ever cried- he hadn't even shed a tear when Cora was dying. Now his left elbow was fine, but it clicked when he stretched it. He kind of liked it. It reminded him some days that he was still human, regardless of you know, not exactly being human.

 

________

 

Hiking several days later was like braving the inside of an armpit; humid and miserable. That was the most relatable analogy Stiles could come up with anyway, as grossly accurate as it was.

Stiles was humming a song to himself as they hiked through the perspiring forest, swiping at the air with a twig. "So you've been through here already?" He asked, hopping slightly over what might've been a pile of animal poop.

"Yeah," Derek replied, walking alongside him leisurely and listening to his elbow click as he stretched his arms tight behind his back. "I told you that yesterday."

Marking a safe path for Stiles to follow had been more or less easy; he just had to make sure there were no holes, tricky tree roots, animal dens or poisonous plants on this unfamiliar path. Cora had suggested he bring some of the pink tape she used to mark her own trails through the woods, but he'd declined. It had been raining when he was scouting yesterday so it probably wouldn't have stuck and besides, he could remember where to go.

"Just making sure," Stiles looked behind himself like he expected something to be following. "I've never been here before, I don't want to get lost. I've seen movies where people get lost in the woods or wherever and after so long they become crazy, deformed, psychopathic killers. Or they just get eaten by sharks," he rambled on absently.

"Well those things almost never happen," Derek said. "By the way did you happen to take your medication today?" He said it as a joke but he swore he could feel the extra energy pilling off of him like the beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Did _you_ take your 'shut the hell up' today?" He countered. "Sorry," he fizzled out after a particularly deadly look from Derek. "No I didn't. Often I don't. I thought I might need the stamina today. And it's summer anyway," he waved it off.

"If you say so," Derek said, suddenly focused on something he hadn't heard the day before. He stuck his hand out and held Stiles back by his shirt sleeve. "Wait."

"What? What do you hear? Oh God, what is it? There's something out there isn't there? Oh my God I'm gonna die I was right," he fussed hysterically.

Derek rolled his eyes and jerked Stiles' closer. "No. I hear water."

"Oh," he calmed down breathlessly, "right, I heard it too. Like a babbling brook. I mistook it for a chainsaw, silly me."

"You couldn't hear it, its too far away," Derek said bluntly, and dragged Stiles with him in the direction of the sound.

"Wait why are we going to it?"

"Curious."

A few dozen yards away, they broke through the treeline and stopped at the source of the sound: a creek.

"Woah," Stiles croaked.

'Woah' summed it up nicely. _Just_ a creek wouldn't be special, but this one might've been crafted by Pixar. The water curled through it and melded seamlessly into it's sandy bank, shimmering in the sun like aquamarine honey. It was only discolored by the shadows of tree branches spreading above it, some dipping low like they were reaching out to touch it. A backdrop of gray granite hillside contained the opposite bank, and a giant's handful of granite boulders and stones bathed in the deeper side before it, begging to be climbed on. This all collected in a portion of creek that ballooned wide compared to it's tails, like a rat in a snake's belly- and altogether it created the most perfect swimming hole Derek had ever seen.

They stepped closer onto the bank as one conjoined unit, only when Derek remembered he was holding Stiles' shirt did he let go. "I must not've heard this yesterday through the rain," he said, shielding his eyes from the sun.

Stiles' face was one of wonderment. "How could you have almost missed this? It's like a Disney movie," He exclaimed, sitting down. "I feel like I'm going to see Bambi or something. Maybe Mulan. She's hot."

Derek didn't answer and instead bent down to take off his boots and socks. He followed up with his shirt, and un-pocketed his valuables. "Hold up are you gonna swim?" Stiles asked, like it was unheard of to do so.

"Yep. Why not?"

"Eh, I like swimming as much as the next guy but I don't know. There could be like... Flesh eating bacteria in that water. And no offense but I didn't have the best time the last time we swam together."

"Because I had all the fun right?" Derek asked dryly and stepped in the water, it was cool between his toes. He waded in until the water was up to his waist and he shuddered from the sudden temperature change. He took a deep breath and made himself go all the way under, then broke the surface with a gasp. Cool water drained from every nook of him and he shook his head, his hair most likely plastered in a funny way. He looked back to see Stiles watching him from the sand.

Derek pushed his wet hair off his forehead and held a hand out, curling his fingers once. "Come on, get in. No flesh eating bacteria, I would smell it," He added, though he wasn't really sure.

Stiles blew out his cheeks. "Fine." He started to untie his shoes and remove his shirt. "But only because you asked so nicely." He waded cautiously into water, shivering and pulling his arms up to his chest like a girl when it reached the bare skin of his stomach. He stopped in front of Derek and glared. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Derek said, accidentally letting his eyes roam over him and noticing how his muscles had grown since he'd last seen him without a shirt. "This is good therapy," he added matter of factly.

Stiles glared at him still. "I should just go back to my _real_ therapist," he grumbled. "She at least gives me a break."

Derek raised his eyebrows. "Oh, I'll give you a _break_ ," he sneered, advancing on him. Stiles saw the promise of injury on Derek's face and turned to dive away but he was too slow; Derek grabbed him around the waist and held him fast to his chest. Stiles grunted, and might've been able to slip free if his captor didn't regularly bench press freight cars. He purposely fell backwards and took Stiles with him under the water, feeling Stiles giggling against him in the canned silence.

They swam for hours until the sun shone from the west, then dragged themselves back to the house, dripping wet and drained of energy. They made it back just before seven, standing at the front door when Stiles remembered to check in with his dad.

"Aw crap," he sighed. He was still in his wet pants without a shirt, and his shoulders were beginning to redden with a sunburn. "I forgot to call my dad and tell him when I'd be home." He found his phone and was swiping numbers on the screen when Derek spoke up.

"Do you want to just stay the night?"

Stiles looked at him like a frightened animal. "I uh, is that allowed..? I mean I wouldn't want to put you out or anything."

"It's fine, Stiles," Derek assured him. He only offered because he didn't feel like driving Stiles home. It wasn't like he wanted have a silly sleepover. Really.

"Well... Okay, sure." Stiles called his dad and told him what was up, assuring him he'd probably be much safer at Derek's house than his own. "Yeah, I will dad. I love you. See you tomorrow," he hung up. They lingered awkwardly before Stiles asked, "so... What's for dinner?"

"What would you like?" Peter said, opening the door (making Stiles jump) and welcoming them inside.

"Oh shi- sheesus... Hey it's Mr. Fahrenheit," Stiles said, stepping past him like a bad smell.

"That's hardly funny," Peter said. "But I'll sing a different Queen song if you want. I can sing all the parts to _Bohemian Rhapsody_."

Derek stepped past him after Stiles. "Nobody wants to hear you sing."

"Why doesn't anyone ever want to hear me sing?" Peter winked at Derek and left out the front door, humming to himself. Changing the locks wouldn't help, sadly. But a moat of lava might...

He was brought back from his sadistic daydream by the sound of Stiles shivering. "Dude it's freezing in here! When did that happen?" He rubbed his hands down his sides. Earlier in the week they'd successfully installed a window AC in each room, so they happily kept the place almost too cold.

"Hey Stiles," Cora manifested in front of Stiles, making him jump again and giving him a less reserved once over than Derek had earlier. "Nice sunburn," was all she said and continued to the front door, Stiles grappling for something to say after her. "I'm going with Peter, we'll be back later," she said.

"See ya..." Stiles finally said as the door shut behind her. "I have a sunburn?" He asked, quickly feeling his face and craning his neck to look over his shoulder.

"Yup," Derek confirmed, clapping him on the back.

"Ouch!"

"Let's get something to eat," Derek said, and lead the way to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and found taco stuff from yesterday, so he heated it up and they made tacos.

"Hey, remember when you threw my burrito?"

Derek remembered, but more so the edgy feeling of his patience being burnt out. He realized just how much more patience he had now as he bit into a taco.

"And you almost killed Mr. Finstock." Stiles shook his head. "At first he blamed a student for the fiesta in his car, but then he actually came up with a few theories," he licked sour cream off his thumb. "My favorite one he came up with was where he thought an astronaut must've been eating a burrito while he was floating around in the atmosphere, accidentally dropped it, and it became a Mexican shooting star. Or something. He was totally off though."

"Wow."

After dinner, the sun was gone and Cora and Peter still hadn't returned. "I'm gonna take a shower," Derek said, heading off to the downstairs bathroom. "You can use the upstairs bathroom if you want."

"Uh, sure..." Stiles said weakly, looking a little lost.

After washing the smell of creek bottom off in a hot shower, Derek rifled through the medicine cabinet, looking for something to help Stiles' sunburn. They didn't really have much for first aid, but he managed to find a dusty bottle of calamine lotion that had been left from who knows when. He twisted off the top and was just about to smell it when he heard Stiles call him from upstairs. "Coming," he called, and padded out of the bathroom and upstairs on bare feet.

"Stiles?"

"Uh... Can I borrow some clothes?" Stiles asked from behind the bathroom door.

Derek leaned his head against the wall and sighed. He'd forgotten about that. "Yeah. Come out, I'll find you something," he said.

He felt Stiles hesitate on the other side of the door before it creaked open and Stiles stepped out carefully, wringing a towel tight around his hips. His hair was towel dried damp, and his face was pink from his cheekbones across the slope of his nose. Derek couldn't tell if it was blush or sunburn, maybe a little of both. "Thanks," he said.

Derek lead him up to his room, which he hadn't organized in a while. His bed was half made, a few articles of clothing had migrated to the floor and he'd left two cups on his nightstand. Still, it was _Better Homes & Gardens_ quality compared to Stiles' room. "What do you want?" He opened his dresser drawers and Stiles stepped up to look after taking a second look around.

"You know there are other colors besides black right?" Stiles joked.

"Well maybe Cora has something you can wear," he suggested sugarly. "She likes blue, too."

"Geez, I was kidding. I wouldn't dare insult your style." Stiles picked out a short sleeve shirt and a pair of basketball shorts, both black, naturally.

"Wait," Derek touched his arm and showed him the pink bottle of calamine. "You probably want this first. It's all we have," he added when Stiles turned his nose up. He made to take it from Derek's hand but Derek spun him around and opened it himself. He got a little and rubbed in on a small part of Stiles skin.

"That okay?" He asked, wanting to be sure it wouldn't sting. Or eat his flesh. Whatever.

Stiles shuddered slightly. "Yeah. 'S cold," he mumbled. Derek rolled his eyes for what could've been the millionth time today and got a handful of goo. He rubbed it slowly all over Stiles' back, first his shoulders and between his shoulder blades, down his sides, over his pale scars and even the low dimples above his butt. Stiles squirmed a little but to Derek, nothing felt easier. He spun him back around and held his face still, soothing the pink blooms on his cheeks. Stiles' heart fluttered and he avoided Derek's eyes, focusing intently on his face.  

"I can do this part myself, y'know," he crinkled his nose from the smell but made no effort to break away.

"I'm making sure it gets done right," Derek lied, feeling a sweep of déjà vu from the Fourth of July. "Done," he said, and wiped his greasy hands on Stiles’ stomach, feeling his ab muscles tense with a giggle.

"Don't do that!" He jumped away and almost fell over, trying not to laugh or lose his towel.

Derek left him to dress, stopping at the closet to pull out an extra quilt.

"Would it be lame if I just wanted to go to sleep now?" Stiles asked when he returned and yawned deeply. "I'm so tired now."

Derek caught his yawn and said that would be fine, he wanted to sleep too. They did a lot today, anyway. Stiles watched Derek dump the extra quilt onto his bed and take his shirt off. "So where do I-" he yawned again, "sleep?"

"My bed."

Stiles blinked. "You mean like on the floor?"

"I mean like on my bed," he said like it was obvious. They didn't have a spare bed. "Unless you'd prefer the floor. I think I heard some mice last night, so it up to you," he shrugged, laying with his hands behind his head on his queen sized bed.

Stiles faltered. "Oh, oh right. Sure." He hesitated on the other side of the bed before taking off his shirt and climbing in on all fours. He laid on his back, winced from his burn, and turned onto his stomach. Derek reached over to turn off his christmas lights and settled back in, rolling onto his stomach too and turned to be face to face with Stiles.

Stiles was staring at where he thought Derek's face was, not seeing well in the dark. Derek could though and searched his face close up, first right eye then left, over the bridge of his nose and into the pink bow shape of his upper lip.

"You wanna know something?" Derek asked him.

"You just farted?"

God always with the sarcasm. "No. When I went to go see you in the hospital that time, the nurse almost didn't let me in."

"Oh," he frowned. "So what did you do?"

"I had to lie and tell her I was your cousin, Miguel Stillinski."

Stiles beamed. "You really did that for me? That's hilarious!" He busted up, his laughter jiggling the mattress beneath them lightly.

"I would've rather ripped my toenails out with my own teeth at the time," he shrugged, wrinkling the sheets. "But all I could think about was seeing you. You ass." Stiles was still laughing and Derek reached out to put a hand on his warm back. "It feels so long ago," he said quietly, finding the silvery skin of his scars and tracing his fingers over them gently.

Stiles' heart _bah-thump_ 'ed and he sighed shakily. "Yeah. Hard to believe. But now I'm... Kinda grateful."

Derek faltered in the patterns he was tracing and asked why.

"Cos, now we're, we're together," he said into the mattress, peeking at Derek from under his dark lashes. "Otherwise..."

"Oh." He wasn't expecting that, as sweetly morbid as it was. He felt his chest compress, almost painfully so. "I guess you're right."

"'M always right," Stiles mumbled, closing his eyes. "All the time."

"Sure," Derek leached some of his sunburn pain away and watched him fall asleep, stopping his touches only when he settled completely. But his chest still ached to bursting as he stared at his sleeping face. He knew what the feeling was, he was familiar with it, and it's what made him lean in and press his lips to Stiles' warm forehead. He came away with a quiet pop, and felt his whole body buzzing with what he'd let escape.

Right then he didn't care. He didn't even care if Stiles cared. It felt better than anything to know he wasn't going anywhere this time, hopefully ever again. This was where he always wanted to be.

He didn't fall asleep for awhile after that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how, but I've almost gotten 10,000 hits. I know wtf c: I don't know how I should celebrate, but if you have a good idea, tell me what it is! Thank you, all of you. Next chapter is already partially written fyi.


	16. Butterflies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sure, for a long while now he'd felt happiest when he was with him, seeing him, touching him- they were pretty much best friends. Only natural. What bothered him though, was just how similar it felt to being with his first crush. The girl who gave him butterflies. The girl he loved. The girl who's life he'd ruined and then killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyylo~ I WAS BUSY OKAY? Geez. Enjoy this longer chapter, there are probably mistakes, sorry guys.  
> Song on the radio Stiles sings (from this chapter) [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VF6-J5BCxWM), because I'm lame like that.

Derek was drawn up from his sleep, feeling the edges of his restless dream fade away behind the black of his eyelids. His first sticky breath of the morning heated the pillow under his face. He heard another life humming close by and breathed deeply through his nose. _That's right_ , he remembered, because nobody was perfectly lucid just waking up. _Stiles._ He could smell him, mingling under the fog of his own scent.

His eyes cracked open once, twice, before staying open. He found his friend staring at the ceiling, propped up with his hands behind his head and Derek quietly watched him in the fresh morning light. Something seemed to be bothering him; he bit inside his lip and sighed softly through his nose. He blinked a couple times, his long lashes dusting his pink cheekbones and glanced over at Derek.

"Jeeshus," he flinched. "Well good morning to you."

Derek rolled his eyes and sat up, rubbing his eyes and splitting his lips with a yawn. Oh yeah, he hadn't slept very stellar. Why was that again? There was a reason, and whatever is was meandered somewhere beyond the light in his sleepy brain. "What time is it?"

Stiles twisted around to check his phone on the nightstand and said it was about 9 o'clock. "We went to bed kind of early," he sat up on his butt and stretched. "I've been up since eight."

"Oh." Derek stared at the ceiling, trying to chase whatever it was he couldn't remember. Something had kept him up late last night.

"Do you smell food?" Stiles asked, sniffing the air deeply.

He did. That was weird. In his house the standard was 'everyone fend for themselves, but the first person up is obligated to make the coffee', so nobody ever really cooked breakfast. Derek got out of bed with skeptical thoughts and reached toward the ceiling for a good stretch. Maybe whatever was bugging him would come to light when he had some coffee. Coffee made everything better. He turned in his stretch to see Stiles bend slightly off his side of the bed, muscles pulling under pink skin. He picked up his borrowed t-shirt from the floor where he'd left it last night and shook it out.

His chest squeezed familiarly. Last night. He dug in deeply, letting it wash over him in pieces. Last night he told Stiles about how he'd snuck into the hospital. Right, then he'd stroked Stiles' back until he fell asleep. Mhm. And then he moved in close while Stiles slept and--

His eyes widened, remembering very well. 

Stiles stopped in front of him and swayed his arms, just casually waiting for Derek to lead the way. "Whuts up?" Stiles stared at him dubiously.

Derek stared back with knitted brows and swallowed the cottony dryness in his mouth. He broke all his words into tiny nothings before they could come out wrong, not knowing exactly what he was supposed to be asking and shook his head. "Its- never mind. I'm fine."

"Well, okay," Stiles said slowly. "Lay off the blue crystal."

Derek didn't even feel like asking what the hell he meant by that. He was busy following this loose end he'd unraveled as he walked behind Stiles' slow commute down the stairs. Stiles was rambling about something else, but it just registered as white noise in Derek's brain that he methodically grunted responses to.

 _I kissed him_? He bored holes into the back of Stiles' lumpy bed head. Now his memory was too clear, how he'd done it so easily without rhyme or reason, how delightfully unsettled he'd felt afterward that he hadn't fallen asleep until maybe early this morning. He felt the flutter coming back up and he swallowed it down, weighting it with stones in his stomach.

 _It's not a big deal_ , he reasoned. Nothing was different now. Stiles obviously (hopefully) wasn't aware, and that helped smooth his uneasiness. He decided to shove it under the rug until he was in a place he could think clearly, one without Stiles' stench everywhere. First he just had to get through breakfast.

They padded as a pair into the dining room, Cora was already perched in her spot at the table in sweat pants with her hair in a messy bun and a smug look on her face. "Just in time," she said upon hearing them arrive, "Peter made breakfast."

Shit. He forgot about Peter.

"Wakey wakey eggs and bakey," Peter said dryly, walking into the dining room with a large platter of breakfast and setting it before them on the table. There was a stack of french toast, fried eggs and even bacon. But more importantly Peter was wearing an apron.

"So you lost the bet, huh?" Derek asked with a professional level of nonchalance and sat down next to his sister. He grabbed a piece of french toast from the platter even though his belly wasn't in the mood.

"What bet?" Stiles asked as he reached for the toast too, happening to bump Derek's arm. Why did that make him flinch? He groaned inside.

Peter returned from the kitchen again with a pitcher of coffee and four mugs clinking together in one hand. "No," he refused, "she tricked me. I didn't know she could fit that many marshmallows in her mouth."

"Don't be a baby," Cora shot, picking up a mug.

"Oh, more coffee," Stiles said, watching Peter pour himself a cup. "Do you brew a few twenty gallons in the bathtub each day? Just give me an estimate."

"You don't like coffee?" Cora asked, not meanly.

"It's okay. But there should be a cutoff for you guys," Stiles shook his head disapprovingly. "So... how many marshmallows _can_ you fit in your mouth?"

She smirked, looking more like Derek than ever. "Fourteen."

"She beat me by two," Peter groused. "And I even cheated."

"That's surprising," Stiles muttered, looking at Derek and poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Derek almost choked.

Everyone settled in and talked as peaceably as possible. It sort of reminded Derek of when they were kids. There used to be breakfast waiting almost every Sunday morning when they got up. He, his siblings and cousins would eat together and usually start fist fights over the last piece of bacon, or whatever they were still arguing about from the day before. Then the parents would have to break it up and that usually concluded their breakfast. It was nice though, nothing was ever complicated like it was now. He should've appreciated it more.

Especially when Stiles brought up the full moon scheduled for later in the week and both family members gave Derek a sideways glance. "It'd probably be best if you stayed home that night," Derek said in a neutral voice, inspecting his bacon."Just in case." It wasn't that he was worried about Stiles; he, like his family, was worried about himself. Right around now he was happier than he'd been in years. And sadly yes, that was in fact a problem for him.

"So how did you two sleep?" Peter asked, leaking yet more raw sewage from his mouth in an attempt to change the mood of the conversation.

Derek ignored the obvious innuendo and busied himself by studying the milk carton. _Vitamins A & D added._ From his peripheral he saw Stiles twitch as he constructed a bacon and egg sandwich. _38% less fat than whole milk._ Peter saw it too and grinned into his coffee cup, the evil bastard. _From cows not treated with rbST._

Nevertheless, Stiles managed to defend himself gracefully. "About the same as your life without a soul," he retorted, chomping into his sandwich.

"Good one," Derek praised.

"Thurnks."

Peter's lips were still twisted into a spiteful smile. "It was an honest question. I just like to be aware of the relationship status between my precious nephew and his boo."

And just like old times, there was a fist fight over the breakfast table.

 

"Sorry about that back there," Derek said finally, idling at a red light as he drove Stiles home.

"Yeah," Stiles grimaced in the passenger seat of Derek's car, picking the crusty dried egg yolk off his borrowed shirt. There was even a tiny piece of toast in his hair he hadn't noticed, but Derek left it. "Maybe next time you can give me a slight heads up before you tackle someone from across the table and send food flying across the room. Like make a fart noise with your tongue or something."

"Will do." Derek could've blamed his edginess on the imminent full moon but he didn't feel like lying to himself.

"Though it was pretty cool how you twisted Peter's shoulder around like that. Just the sound of it made me lose my appetite faster than the time I almost cut your arm off." He shuddered, seemingly involuntarily.

Derek scoffed in place of a reply, anxiously tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Without a proper distraction, the thing he hid under the rug was creeping out. Even replaying the senseless violence he'd ensued fifteen minutes ago hadn't helped. He didn't even protest when Stiles fiddled with the radio, found a metal station and reclined back in his seat.

Derek snuck a glance at his passenger that was drumming his thumbs on his knees, and let himself wade knee deep in his personal cesspool of confusion.

Sure, for a long while now he'd felt happiest when he was with him, seeing him, touching him- they were pretty much best friends. Only natural. What bothered him though, was just how similar it felt to being with his first crush. The girl who gave him butterflies. The girl he loved. The girl who's life he'd ruined and then killed.

He glanced at Stiles again, who was silently singing along to the radio very animatedly.

This definitely... Was not that. Okay fine he'd pretty much ruined Stiles' life; but didn't have a crush on him. That was just.. He didn't know what it was. Plus he'd been able to put Stiles' life back together again, minus one little puzzle piece. Which still bothered him. Come to think of it he wondered if it bothered Stiles even though he claimed it didn't. Now he wasn't really sure why Stiles still hung out with him. He knew it was terrible but God, right about now he really wished he could read his mind again with a simple touch because he was acting like a little bitch.

He stopped at another red light and Stiles suddenly sighed and turned the radio down.

"I liked that song," Derek protested half-heartedly. He didn't really. The silence was just too loud right now.

"You know, your life really sucks." Stiles stated, more like dead-panned.

That was weird. Derek entertained the thought for a second that maybe Stiles read _his_ mind. The ol' switcheroo. "Um. Yeah. I know that already, but thanks."

"No no no, I mean," he fought himself for the right words, which looks exactly how it sounds. "I mean first your life kind of blew ass anyway -sorry but its true- and now you've got me to worry about," he flung his hands in the air.

Derek frowned. "What do you mean?" He asked in a collected voice. "Do I have to remind you about how it was my fault? How I almost _killed_ you? I actually think you were there."

Stiles sighed frustratedly. "I got that part. What I mean is, you went through all this crap and even went so far as to _kill another alpha_ to try and help me," he half-shouted. He wasn't angry he was just... Stiles-hysterical. "Why? And like why do we still even hang out? I thought you couldn't _stand_ me but now I'm like... I mean seriously how do I even deserve all of that?"

What a twist. Derek's eyebrows had raised so high he might've pulled something. "I can stand you," he said after a moment.

Stiles snorted. "Okay why do you?"

Silence.

"Look don't get me wrong, I mean, it's good, I told you that. But I m-"

Derek stopped him. "If you say 'I mean' again we might have a traffic accident."

He glared. "Force of habit. Not sorry. Just give me one reason," he all but pleaded.

Derek came to a halt at yet another red light so he had no choice but to say something. His luck was worse than usual today. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, fending off a headache. "Well, why are you friends with Scott?" He asked. "Does there have to be a reason? Why is the sky blue?"

"Well that's actually because most of the molecules in the earth's atmosphere only reflect blue light okay I'm shutting up."

Neither of them spoke again until Derek pulled into the driveway next to the Jeep. He knew Stiles was as stubborn as himself and not going anywhere more than a tree stump so he leaned back in his seat and looked for anything to say in the gray fabric ceiling of his car. He sighed through gritted teeth, irritation bubbling close to the rim and spoke the first rough draft thoughts that came to mind.

"You always surprise me," he said to the upholstery. "You always figure everything out. I don't want you to ever remember I said this but you're funny. And you deserve much better than I've been able to give." Ugh. Honest as he was, each sentence was like tearing out different fingernails. Just like it. His nerves prickled again, feeling Stiles watch him. Was that too much? Did Stiles know he'd kissed him? Not that it mattered. Jesus!

"Like how funny?"

Derek's worries died, aggravation resurrected, and he glowered at him out of the corner of his eye. He was cracking a small pink smile with bright clever eyes. "So funny I could just wring your neck like a wet towel." He reached out quickly and Stiles recoiled, but all Derek did was snatch that stupid bit of toast out of his hair. It would've bothered him all day otherwise. "Now get out of my car."

Stiles promptly ran a hand through his hair, just messing it more and puckered his lip. "Awh, don't be such a sour wolf. You're funny too."

Derek let out a low growl and flashed his eyes. "See that's hilarious," Stiles acknowledged, un-phased by his techniques. Derek snapped at him and he fumbled with his seatbelt before stumbling out of the car quickly. He slammed the door and leaned in through the open passenger side window. "Okay! Well thanks I had fun, I'm gonna go change out of these clothes now. They smell like jerk," he grinned and wrinkled his nose.

Derek started to roll up the window and Stiles yelped, backing away. He pouted like his feelings had been hurt and rubbed the back of his head where it must've bumped the frame. Whoops.

"Well I _love you too_!" He heard Stiles call sarcastically as he backed out of the driveway. It was a joke but under his circumstance it made his stomach hitch and he almost stomped on both pedals. Very smooth indeed. He curled his fists around the steering wheel and snorted angrily, like a miffed little girl. He contemptuously changed his radio back to his regular station and drove home, feeling like a big dumb wolf.

What the actual hell was wrong with him.

 

_________

 

As we mentioned earlier Derek being happy _was_ in fact, a problem. Because as Stiles' had plainly put it, his life just sucked ass.

He sat alone on the floor in his room with his back against the wall, distractedly biting his nails in dreadful anticipation. He watched the dark blue world turn outside his window, bringing the full moon higher and brighter in the sky. It wasn't time yet but Derek could feel it, just like always.

The change was a hard thing to describe for someone who'd never experienced it. You can feel it in the morning when you wake up, like a slow, hot, bristling undercurrent that only strengthens as the day drags on. When the inevitable comes, the change hits like a fiery surge that pulls you, shoves you, threatening to break and reshape your bones into something you don't want to be. Sort of like a bully, not that Derek ever had to deal with that, obviously. As a born wolf he was used to the change and could even brush the transformation off completely in favor of his anchor.

Well, he _used_ to be able to.

His anchor, the bitter hatred he kept on tap at all times was drying up like a spring in the desert. And he was terrified. Though he'd never say that out loud.

But he really was.

He felt his fingers curling beyond his control then, fingernails evolved into pointy claws. He took a deep breath and gritted his teeth, forcing them back down. _No_. He told himself. He was stronger than this. He'd been through a handful of changes since the night he lost his control, and he'd been fine.

But this month he was home again, things were smooth as room temperature butter and he was screwed. It wasn't that all his previous anchors didn't still hurt like a bitch everytime he thought about them (which was a lot), but it was like they were tired and old, problems that were resolved and no longer as painfully raw.

There was a soft knock on his door and he knew it was Cora before she'd even reached the top step. "Yeah," he mumbled.

She entered, shut the creaky door behind her and sat down cross legged in front of him. "Hey. Doing okay?" She asked. He could see the worry in her hard eyes and in the little wrinkle between them. She and Peter were fine tonight, since they had all their ducks in a row.

His nails itched in their beds and he grimaced again, squeezing his hands into tight fists. "Not really," he said through clenched teeth. As if on cue they both glanced out the window at the moon.

"Is anything working?" She asked quietly, warily. She'd known about his problem since last month, known how this night might go. He knew his family was waiting for him to break, maybe they were even counting on it. They probably should be.

He shook his head and abruptly cringed, feeling his canines drop. It hurt when he was fighting against it. "Shit," he groaned, dropping his head. "I can't think of anything," he panted. "I need to anchor myself." He _really_ did not want to turn with his little sister inches from his face. He almost told her to go but he was desperate.

"Hey, hey," she coaxed, coming forward and putting a warm hand on his arm. She peered up into his eyes. "It's gonna be okay. Maybe it doesn't have to be something bad."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, what makes you happy?" She asked. "For me it's how things used to be, before everything," she said somberly.

"No," he grunted. No, that still hurt too much, knowing that was his fault. And even that wasn't enough. Cora told him to think of something else and he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the blue glow leak into them. His claws pierced the flesh of his palms and the pain helped clear the fog in his head. He heaved deep unstable breaths as he tried to fish for an answer.

Okay what made him happy? Did anything ever make him happy? It shouldn't be a hard question to answer but now he couldn't think of anything at all. His mind was on overdrive as he fought a losing battle. He randomly thought of Stiles saying something half-baked like he just couldn't get it up and laughed in spite of the situation.

 _Stiles would probably be flipping his shit right about now_ , he thought absently. It would be funny, the way Derek knew he couldn't help jerking his head or flailing his arms around like all of him couldn't be contained. His eyes would be wide like a owl's and he'd flare his nostrils anxiously, chattering as he wracked his brain for a solution. He wished he was here.

Suddenly he felt the feral color drain from his closed eyes. He opened them cautiously and looked at his hands, dripping red with blood like cherry syrup. Maybe Cora was right, maybe this didn't have to be something bad. He swallowed and followed this new string of thought before he could lose it.

He thought only about Stiles, as creepy as it sounds. He thought about going swimming with him tomorrow, if he didn't kill anyone tonight. He thought about going to his house again and watching whatever retarded TV show he was obsessed with this week. Eating cereal, bumping warm shoulders in the middle of couch where the cushions sank down. Stiles would narrate the whole damn time making incongruous jokes about the characters and Derek would smile for the first time that day.

His teeth shrank back into blunt, nonlethal human ones and he gasped. Holy shit this was actually working. He panted and held on as another wave heckled him, stronger than the first. He staved it off by remembering how Stiles had hugged him the day he'd returned empty-handed, loyal and forgiving. How he could believe everything was going to be alright, even if it really wasn't but that was okay, somehow.

His claws retracted and he winced, flexing his fingers carefully and willed the perforated flesh to heal quickly. He looked up at Cora and she watched him closely, waiting, letting him adjust. He nodded at her,  letting her know he was okay and leaned his head back against the wall. His body felt wrung out but he was himself, he'd won.

He was tethered again.

Cora thanked God in a breath and scooched closer to sit by his side. "So... What is it now?" She asked carefully in the silence, stroking his the hills of his knuckles with her thumb.

He looked down at his hand in hers. "Stiles," he said, waiting for her to tell him he was crazy.

"That's not surprising."

He heard the 'it should be obvious' tone in her voice and looked at her suspiciously.  "What do you mean?"

She craned her neck to look at him, a little coy smile playing at the corners of her lips, making her cheeks chubby. "Are you that dumb?"

He stared daggers at his little sister. "Apparently."

Her eyes flitted to the ceiling and back. "He's kind of the only thing that makes you happy lately, you know. I thought you'd figure that out yourself, but I guess you just needed a push in the right direction. It's kind of sweet," she added, grinning and elbowing his ribs.

He shook his head wearily and elbowed her back. "Don't be cute."

She bumped him again and he rested his tired head on the crown of hers.

"I'm just saying."

 

________

 

Derek was a-ok the next day, so he and Stiles hiked to their swimming hole and swam for a few hours.

When they dragged themselves out their toes were prunes and muscles were heavy. They sat on a bed sheet Stiles brought in place of a towel, draining out in the sun. Then Stiles unzipped his backpack and surprised him with warm peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, wrapped in plastic and half smushed. He handed Derek two and himself one. When Derek gave him a look, he sheepishly explained how he noticed Derek ate more. He snorted and ate only one, putting the other back in Stiles' bag.

"How was last night?" Stiles asked out of the blue, laying on his belly propped up on his elbows. Derek was kind of surprised it wasn't the first thing he'd asked him today.

"Fine," he lied smoothly, picking jelly from under his pinky finger, remembering the bloody mess of his palms last night. He sat with one knee folded beside him, feeling the sun dry his water-worn skin. Stiles was a genius and used sunscreen this time. Werewolves didn't get sunburns.

"That's good. Just wondering since you guys seemed pretty worried about it," he went on. If Derek didn't know any better he'd think Stiles wasn't curious about it and actually believed him. But you just can't bullshit a bullshitter.

"We weren't worried."

"Sure you weren't."

He threw Stiles an annoyed look, but he was too busy doodling in the sand to catch it. Doubts flitted through his mind like leaves in the wind. Why did he kiss this kid? Because reasons unknown. More importantly why did he anchor himself to him? That reason was off the radar but Stiles rolled over on his back and bumped into him, staring up at him with challenging eyes.

And he remembered.

Derek pinched his ribs, making him start and sit up with a choked laugh. Derek smirked lightly, not expecting Stiles to full on tackle him. Derek _oof_ 'ed and fell back on the uneven sand with Stiles' little over 147 pounds weight on his chest, their ribs rubbing together uncomfortably. 

"That's for trying to drown me the other day," Stiles said uncertainly, like he hadn't expected to end up with his elbows rooted on Derek's shoulders and his nose in licking distance. His breath smelled like peanut butter, which wasn't that bad compared to other things.

Derek stared back at him half amused, neither moving save their hearts bumping over each other's. Butterflies? Wasn't he a little old for those? "If I'd tried drowning you, I would've succeeded."

Stiles retaliated by blowing a puff of peanut butter fragrance in his face.

Derek gripped Stiles' arms and rolled their whole arrangement over in a blink; hovering over him on hands and knees. "But I'm sure I could try again, what do you say?" He asked in a wolfish voice, verging on a growl. He couldn't help it, he still liked to play the alpha.

Stiles eyes superglued to his like shiny brown buttons and he swallowed, tucking his chin. "I guess I could give you an A for effort," he croaked, heart stuttering inside his chest. There was a newborn vulnerability on him Derek hadn't seen yet: flustered and trapped beneath him. A weird heat pooled in his stomach and the urge to kiss him again fell from the sky and threw him for a loop. But like hell he would. That definitely wasn't fair to Stiles; to push his messy, sticky, upside down feelings on him and expect him to just accept them like a box of free donuts. That wasn't going to happen. No matter how much he liked donuts.

When they started the trek back home they were both practically silent. He knew he'd messed up because Stiles didn't even talk or look at him. He was so busy with his own thoughts he wasn't even sure how he'd managed to put the wrong foot down and trip.

But he did, and he fell. He slipped right off a stupid ledge and watched the sky cartwheel over him in a whirl of white and blue. Besides the woosh of air in his ears, one sound was louder than the others.

" _Derek_!"

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit Derek you dun goofed son! Yeah I was totally aware of the fact that I've been fluffing this like a pillow, but I warned you! Don't worry, shits gonna get real soon. This story has no plot. I told you. Anyways yes! 10,000 hits hella yeah, thankyou thankyou thankyou everyone!


	17. Chubby Bunny Bonus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cora's thesis was simple: she wanted Derek and Stiles to be together. Like, together together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bonus chapter DON'T HURT ME but I felt like this was needed. Theres a little something I hadn't included in the last chapter. Enjoy the mistakes!

"Start with one, like this," Cora showed, sticking a puffy white marshmallow back in the crevice between teeth and cheek. "And keep adding more. In between each you have to say 'chubby bunny'." She swallowed it and sat the plastic bag of sweets in front of her uncle.

Peter looked a little concerned, a little amused. "Kids these days, the things you come up with," he shook his head warily but complied, picking a good marshmallow and contemplating it between his fingers. "What do I get if I win?"

Cora chewed her lip and thought. "The loser should have to cook breakfast for everyone."

Peter gave her a famous condescending look. "That's weak."

She dipped and eyebrow. "Scared of a little cooking?" He was actually a good cook, so it wouldn't be a challenge. He just hated cooking for other people. Like, he'd rather crochet her a pair of socks- and he couldn't crochet. She didn't think so anyway.

She knew he'd accepted the challenge by the look on his face. He never struck down a challenge, no matter how silly. They were a lot alike. "Let's do this," he said sagely, and stuffed his marshmallow in.

It might've been weird that they were in the middle of the mall, but Peter made it clear earlier that he wanted to get out of the house, to "give the lovers space to knock furniture over", or so he put it. Cora hated the mall. Too many people, most of them dumb, and trying to understand them was like trying to smell the color seven. So she brought a bag of Jet Puffed and prepared to win.

Four marshmallows in, Peter had the lead on her by one but she wasn't worried. She'd already practiced a few days ago and had a golden record of sixteen. It wasn't pretty, but it was impressive. She just wanted to see her uncle look like an idiot and lose, then as added humiliation, cook breakfast for them tomorrow morning. That way she could watch her brother and his best friend.

"Chubby bunny," drool ran down her chin.

Cora's thesis was simple: she wanted Derek and Stiles to be together. Like, _together_ together. She was fixated on the idea, weird as it was. She hadn't seen her brother happy since she'd come back a little over a year ago- except for when he was with Stiles. He'd had good reasons not to be happy all the time, but nobody predicted his accident with Stiles would bloom into a blessing.

People stared and pointed at them where they competed on a bench by the fountain. A young girl and older man facing each other, slowly but steadily stuffing marshmallows in their leaking mouths wasn't an everyday thing. They didn't care, they were in the zone.

The plan of action was also simple. She already knew how Derek held Stiles in a little soft pocket on his heart even if he didn't say it, and after catching the way Stiles stared at her brother while he wasn't looking just cinched it tighter. Cora used to have a crush on Stiles but that ship had sailed when she started catching on. She knew her brother was as dumb as they come, at least about love, and he was most likely busy trying to pick apart his feelings rather than letting them lead him, and not paying attention to his friend's obvious ones. That was where she came in. She just needed a good opportunity, to be the pen to connect the dots. They'd make a picture in time. It would be so perfect.

Peter choked between his twelfth "chubby bunny" and spit his wad of sugary goo in his hand. He grimaced, disgusted and reached over to dump it in a convenient trash can. He wiped his hand on his jeans, leaving an almost obscene smear. "How can you even do that?"

She decided it best not to show off after fourteen, even though there was room. She got rid of her mouthful and grinned, licking the sugar from the roof of her mouth.

"Well, what do you want for breakfast?" Peter grumbled in defeat as they started to leave.

 

_________

 

Next week, the full moon faerie granted her wish.

"Don't be cute," Derek nudged her, recovering from his almost-lapse.

She nudged him back and they nestled together. "I'm just saying," she said lightly. Because it really was sweet that her brooding, big scary werewolf brother had anchored himself to a dorky, sweet human boy with a possible twitch.  "I think it's good that you're happy."

He scoffed, avoiding an actual reply. Denial. That was typical. "Well don't you?" She'd pinned him with her words, leaving him no choice but to answer.

"Yeah," he said after a bit, lamely.

She tried something more straightforward. "You like him."

His heart faltered, which was a confession for him. Bingo. He stayed stoic for a handful of long minutes, probably greasing the cogs of his brain with her sense.

"It's weird," he folded, in a quiet voice she rarely heard him use. "Sometimes I want to strangle him, and other times I want to just..."

"Kiss him?" She tried.

He worked his jaw. "Yeah."

She played with his hand still, gently pulling apart his knobby long fingers. "Maybe you should try."

"I have."

She reigned in a grin. "Oh really?"

"He was asleep."

"That's... Creepy. Have you tried when he's actually awake?"

"I can't."

She should be a dentist. Because this was as tedious as pulling teeth. "Why not?"

"Why not? Cora, it's _Stiles_. The kid who's only maybe  _seventeen_ and been in love with the same girl since he could tie his own shoes," he mocked.

She set his hand down with a squeeze and stood up. "Well, I don't know about that," she hinted.

He stared at her like she was an optical illusion. "What do you mean?"

"Why don't you find out?" She left her words behind for him to construe and returned to her room with a triumphant smirk.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a confession. I have a crush on Adelaide Kane (Cora). No idea why she's just hnng. Next REAL chapter is coming soon! Stay tuned!


	18. Limerence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a timeless moment, he was able to assess that something was broken and his head hurt. But he was alive at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah this is gonna be a funky one, sorry in advance yo c: Mistakes are imminent! [Music that doesn't fit?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BPpphp5hc6E)

The ring of Stiles shouting his name when he fell was almost worse than the explosive pain that followed a few slow seconds after.

"Derek!" There it was again, farther away. "Hang on!"

After a timeless span of time, he was able to assess that something was broken and his head hurt. But he was alive at least, in an awkward sitting position, skewed on a bed of knobby roots and stones. His eyes peeled open to see smeared colors everywhere, blinked twice to focus like a camera lense and found what hurt. His leg was twisted funny and split at the shin like a chicken bone poking out of the meat. He gagged from the pain, intensified with that artistic vision.

"Derek," Stiles was next to him now, kneeling close. He touched his chest. "Oh god dude. Oh, oh no oh shit your leg is like, uhh god." It was Stiles' turn to gag. Derek was used to this sort of thing himself, but this one was pretty _un_ -pretty.

Derek tried to move and was abruptly stopped by a hot burst of pain through his leg and snarled in pain, like he'd stuck his toe in an empty electrical socket.

Stiles panicked. "It's okay, it's gonna be okay, you'll heal?" It sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Derek. He kneeled close to him, fluttering over him anxiously not knowing where to touch or if to touch him.

Derek hated to break it (no pun intended) to him, but he already knew from previous experience that this wasn't going to heal without a little help. He could tell by the way his body was trying in vain to mend itself and suffering technical difficulties. He kicked himself for not using Cora's damn tape to mark the trail. He could've taped a big X to remind himself, "hey asstard, there's a tricky ledge over here just waiting to shit up your day", or something.

"Stiles. Stiles it's not going to-" he groaned, staving off a fresh stab of pain. "It can't heal like this. You have to set it."

"I- what?"

"You have to- _unghmotherfuh_... Set the _bone_ straight."

Stiles' face paled, white and glittery with sweat like sugar.  "But I- I can't- I don't even know how to-" he jerked his arms around helplessly and in a distant part of Derek's brain he thought to himself, _called it._

"Stiles you _have to_ ," he gritted out. "I can't do it myself."

Stiles gaped like a fish and glanced at Derek's leg, heaving slightly like he might pass out. It was a small miracle he hadn't already. He shook his head, watching the dirt. "I- I don't know how-"

"Stiles," Derek growled. "Look at me." Stiles forced himself to look at him, painfully squeamish expression puckering his face. "You can do this, you have to," he said as earnestly as he could at the moment. "I'll show you what to do. It'll be okay."

Stiles swallowed thickly. "Okay." He took a deep breath as if to center himself and moved down to his leg. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"You need to push the bone back in." He instructed Stiles how to twist his broken appendage, helping to realign it. "That should be enough to for it to heal."

Stiles nodded tersely and opened his eyes to stare at it bravely. He swallowed again and put trembling hands on Derek's leg, gummy with blood. "Won't it- isn't that going to hurt like _a lot_?" He squeaked.

"Nope, it'll feel great _of course its going to hurt_!" He didn't want to snap at the only person who could help him right now but if Stiles didn't do something right now it was just going to get worse. This was an ironic role-reversal.

" _Okay_!" Stiles shouted back. He was a total wreck. "Okay here goes nothing! On the count of three okay? And for the record I'm throwing up afterwards!" Derek managed a contemptuous look and Stiles began counting down.

"One... God why me," he whimpered, clutching tighter. "Two... _Three_!" Derek didn't believe he really had it in him but-

 _Snap_.

Derek's head whipped back and a tortured roar ripped through his throat, rubbing it raw and tapering off with a normal human scream. Birds scattered and he breathed through his nose rapidly, watching dots swirl through his eyes.

"Oh God are you okay? Did I do it right?" Stiles released his leg and held his macabre painted hands in the air, terrifically wide-eyed.

After a second Derek could feel the tell-tale tingle of it beginning to heal. "Yeah, yeah you did. Good job," he breathed.

Stiles made a little noise of relief. He wiped his sticky hands off in the grass with a squeamish groan and sidled up next to Derek. They both looked down and watched his leg fix itself, broken skin melding back together with invisible glue. After a minute his blood looked fake and out of place with no source, like he'd dressed as a zombie for Halloween.

"Don't ever... Make me do that... Ever again. I don't care if you've lost a limb and you're bleeding out, I'll leave you and call Scott and he can come sew it back on. That was just... _Ughhh_ ," he shuddered violently, with his entire body. "The nightmares."

Derek's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. "You didn't throw up, at least," he said tiredly, bumping his head into Stiles' and leaving it.

"I still might, okay? Let's just... Ugh _the bone_ it was like-" he suppressed the memory with another shudder. He pulled his legs up and rested his arms on his knees. "I'll never eat meat ever again, thanks a lot."

"So sorry I had to inconvenience you with my carelessness, please forgive me."

They sassed each other, Stiles' hot temple rubbing against Derek's ear as he talked; the same friction you get from being on the phone for too long. His words were undertoned by the sound of his insides calming down and the both of them smelled like copper, sweat and mud.

"Thank you," Derek said, finished with the therapeutic post-trauma back talk.

Stiles shrugged. "Anytime. But can we please take a break from hiking for awhile?"

Derek chuckled and it came out as a weary, breathy sound. "Definitely."

"Great."

Derek was able to walk now, but wasn't exactly sure where the path home was from here and they still hadn't moved to try and figure it out. The forest hugged them all around, providing a cool background noise of restless summer breezes and bird calls. The nice atmosphere made it seem like what happened ten minutes ago actually happened ten _years_ ago, or hadn't at all.

"What were you thinking about, when I left the first time?" He asked, looking at the orange tinge on Stiles' hands.

"Um, you're going to need to be more specific. I have A.D.D., so..."

"When I professor X'd you and you cut your foot on a broken glass."

"Oh, that time. Don't know how I could forget that." Derek could taste his sarcasm. It was almost salty.

Sun glittered green through the leaves and freckled the earth by their feet as he waited for an answer.

 _Don't think about that._ What had he meant? It hadn't crossed Derek's mind since WWIII happened and now he wanted to know again, now that he was taking his sister's advice into consideration.

"I uh, I don't remember," he said. "It might've been something about those stupid economics notes," he grumbled. "I got an A, by the way. On that test. I don't know why I even studied for a class taught by a coach. A crazy one."

Derek tilted his head, listening to the pulse in his temple. "So you don't remember?"

"No." Stiles lied again, and Derek didn't push. Maybe it was nothing.

But maybe it wasn't nothing.

 

________

 

The weekend before school started up again in the first half of August, Derek was home pushing Cora on the swing.

"Why would he lie about it then, if it was nothing?" Cora asked, her hair flying behind her like a flag.

"Don't know," Derek shrugged with a tilt of his chin. Since his younger sister was apparently more inept with these things, he broke down and brought it up to her when their uncle wasn't around.

"Then it obviously wasn't nothing. Idiot."

He was regretting this decision. He pushed her harder, so she flew a little too high.

"Hey just because you're dumb doesn't mean you can bully me," she called. She kicked her bare feet out and aimed for his head.

He stepped out of her way. "Well what should I do?" He asked. "If you're right and he... What would _you_ do?"

"I'd tell him," she answered undoubtedly. "Or better yet you could _show_ him. Stiles is cute when he's bothered, don't you think?" He caught her fleeting grin as she whizzed past.

He avoided acknowledging that with a noncommittal scoff. Stiles wasn't cute. He was smart, copper penny eyes, shell pink skin sprinkled with moles, quirky mouth spouting to infinity and beyond, blue shorts hung on chiseled hip bones- not at all cute.

"What are you waiting for?" She asked in all seriousness, no longer implying his stupidity.

He wasn't sure, so he said the right time.

It was right about then that they heard a familiar horn beeping out front.

"Look at that, it sounds like the right time is here." Cora sailed off of the swing and met the grass with a graceful summersault. He called her a show off and followed the curve around the house. Stiles hailed them from the driveway in his faithful steed, motor idling with it's coarse purr. He hadn't been expecting Stiles, but nobody was ever expecting Stiles.

"Get in loser, we're going shopping," he called.

Derek waved once. "I take back what I said," he muttered under his breath.

Cora snickered softly and waved at Stiles who returned it with a dorky grin. "Well, good luck I guess." She burned him with a knowing leer before heading out back. What had he been reduced to? Getting relationship-coached by his little sister, stomach congealing whenever he saw this goofy boy who was four years younger than himself...

"I hope you don't really mean that," Derek said to Stiles, climbing into the passenger side. He shut the door and clicked his seatbelt. He wasn't partial to riding in Stiles' car, with it's stuffy, stale fast food odor and safety hazards, but he did it anyway.

"Nope I saw it in some old movie actually," Stiles twisted around to make sure he backed out safely. "But we _are_ going to the mall."

Why did he get in the car? It wasn't too late to make a break for it he guessed. They weren't going _too_ fast yet. "No. I hate the mall."

"How can you? There's food- awesome Chinese food- cool hats, video games, _Victoria's Secret_..." He listed. "Oh nevermind wait, I forgot you're a perpetual downer."

"That's me. I hate everyone," he sighed, picking through Stiles' CD case for the one he liked.

"Well deal with it," Stiles said, slipping on a pair of Wayfarers with a flourish and tossed him a weird little smirk. "I need to get some stuff for school. Like new shoes."

"And why are you making me go?" He inquired. He found the CD and put in the player, jiggling it so it would work the way Stiles showed him before.

Stiles turned onto the highway and his chance of a safe duck and roll vanished. "Just some harmless payback for scarring me for life and all that. Also because I saw a steak yesterday and had to lie down. So shut up."

Derek considered that, and sat back in his seat to wait out the ride. "Fair enough."

 

Wait this wasn't fair, Stiles was an idiot. Who goes to the mall on a Saturday, of all days? Derek walked through the automatic doors and into the _mall_ smell like a brick wall; food, all the perfume ever, crisp paper, garbage, rubber, and was something dead? There were people everywhere, walking slow and in the way like ducks. He just followed Stiles, listened to him talk and avoided punching the next person to bump into him.

Needless to say he avoided shopping as much as possible.

"So by 'shoes', you meant 'video game'," he drolled, standing in a game store with his arms crossed as Stiles stared down the shelf of green edged game cases, searching for what he wanted.

"This is just a pit stop, calm down. I'm looking for- ahah," he exclaimed and plucked a game from the shelf. He held it tightly in his hands, engrossed.

" _Grand Theft Auto V_..." Derek read over Stiles' shoulder. "Looks friendly."

Stiles _hnng_ 'd, like his eagerness was overflowing. "I want it. But I don't have the money right now. Maybe I'll ask my dad to get it for my birthday," he mused. "But probably won't. He says I have enough games already," he scoffed humorously. "There's no such thing."

Derek asked him when his birthday was.

"August 18th," he said. That was next week. Also the day of this month's full moon.

Of course it would be.

"We'll be together soon, my sweet." Stiles stroked the cover of the game longingly before shelving it with care.

"Nerd."

"Thank you for noticing," Stiles quipped, leading the way out and to the next stop. More people, more smells, past the food court where he counted four places to get Chinese food and into a shoe store.

"Mm, shoes," Stiles inhaled, stopping in front of a wall of sneakers. "Is it weird that I love this smell?" Derek said no, that he liked the smell of new shoes too, it was the only time they ever smelled good. Fresh and artificial.

Stiles browsed through shoes and Derek picked one up occasionally, absently thinking about absent things, like what Stiles was doing for his birthday. Then Stiles may as well have ambushed him with a stick of mountain ash for what came out of his mouth next.

"Do you think it's weird that Scott's gay?"

His brain slowed like maple syrup in the fridge. "Uh," was all he could form as he stared at a yellow rain boot. He thought Stiles had been oblivious this whole time.

"Well technically, bisexual. It was just... The guy was attached to Allison for so long, then they broke up and it was just like, a total 180 or something. He always was more popular with the guys." He shrugged.

Who stuffed his tongue with sawdust? He coughed. "Does that bother you?"

"No!" He said quickly. "I mean not at all, he's my best friend, so I don't care," he fussed. "I think you just like who you like, regardless of... Y'know. Of everything. Don't you?" He appeared to be deliberately avoiding Derek's questioning gaze, playing with the tag of a red sneaker.

The opportunity to tell Stiles just how right he was hung in the air like a flying whale but he wasn't about to touch it here- in the middle of a crowded shoe store- with a twenty foot pole. So he settled for, "I think you're right about that."

Stiles glimpsed at him, eyebrows piqued like he hadn't expected Derek to agree so leniently. Then he stared at his shoes again. "But come on. Isaac?" He frowned. "What's so special about shovel face?"

Derek snorted. "Scott must see something in shovel face that you don't. He isn't so bad," he humored.

"I guess," he muttered like he still didn't think so. "But Scotty could do better, in my opinion. Somebody who doesn't wear a scarf when its only 70 degrees out," he grumbled.

Stiles paid for his shoes (he decided on the red ones) and said he guessed they could leave, since he could tell Derek was having an allergic reaction to being in a public place in the daytime. Derek refused, matching Stiles' slightly uneven stride. "I want Chinese." He'd smelled it since he walked into this hell hole and he wasn't leaving without it.

"Fine, but you're buying. I want-"

"Orange chicken, I know," Derek blunted. "You always want orange chicken. And two fortune cookies because the first one might suck. It's not like I forgot after the hundredth time."

Stiles huffed, with nothing let to add to that. "Well then you, you _go_ Glen Coco."

"What did you call me?"

"Nothing!"

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you so. And no, I don't have an injury kink, I's squeamish too. TW is gory anyways people!  
> Ohmygosh guys. The next chapter is gonna be the reason why I decided to write this whole monstrosity... and it kind of ran away from me in the process. I really never meant for this to be long as it is. But I love writing it, it makes me feel better lately. Thank you again for letting me string you along c; see you later! (Hope this don't take long...)


	19. Junior Mints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek was terrible with words, so he wasn't sure how to articulate how right now he wanted to kiss him, grow with him, wrangle the rest of his life with him, keep him close. That might be coming on too strong, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wait I made you endure is inexcusable, go ahead, hit me. I'm sorry, life got in the way and I was trying to recover from TW lately holy crapasdfghjkl; This chapter I'd planned in my head months ago, and I had to rewrite it because idk what I'm doing. But anyway enjoy~  
> [Song!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90mzH1kvznQ) This is the song that made me want to write Sterek. Daughter is my Sterek music.

Sometimes you don't really remember how old you are. Either you believe you're younger than you are because there are things you have yet to experience; or older, because you've already been through so much, how could you possibly have any years left? That was how Derek felt anyway, with the life he'd had. It just slipped his mind that he was actually only twenty two, not two hundred and two, and he still had plenty of wiggle room for good things to happen.

His melting stomach was reminding him of how young and inept he really was as he drove to Stiles' house, a birthday gift on the seat next to him, and a fretful resolve on his mind.

It was already dark and the moon was full to the brim, reflecting off his windshield like the Batman signal next to a dead bug, but he wasn't worried about it. He parked behind Stiles' steed and got out, tasting the almost tap water flavored sweetness in the cool night air.

He assumed his very best poker face and rapped on the front door four times. He heard a chair squeak and bare feet hitting the floor before the door swung open.

"Hey!" Stiles greeted him. "Fashionably late?"

"Official wolf business," he stated, staring at the furry thing hugging his head. "What is that."

"What, you don't like it?" He asked, tipping his chin down so Derek was face to face with a wolf hat. No, really. Ears, a snout, soulless eyes and two long mittens. It was awful.

"It suits you."

Stiles shut the door with a 'hmph'. "Isaac got it for me for insulting his fashion choices."

"Uh huh. Where's your dad?"

"Oh, he got a call to go check out some home invasion thing," he psh'd like that was boring compared to something like a triple homicide. "He didn't want to leave me on my birthday but I told him to go. Not like my birthday is more important than his career right? And we already had cake. Speaking of which..."

Derek graced the kitchen and sat on his bar stool, inspecting the half eaten cake under a plastic dome on the bar. It must've said 'Happy Birthday Stiles', but now it just said 'Hap Birt Sti'. Stiles unhinged it's cover and asked if he wanted any while getting himself what was probably his fourth piece. It was chocolate, his favorite, but he refused. He was full of dilemma right now, so maybe later.

"He's your dad, so it probably is more important to him. You'd understand if you had a kid."

"M'yeah I guess. Kids are okay," he added as an afterthought. "Mysteriously sticky, loud, cute. Just give 'em a juice box and turn on the TV."

"Making a résumé?"

"Ha."

He watched Stiles' hands as he shoveled cake into his mouth with a spoon, and asked what he did for his birthday.

Stiles licked chocolate from behind his teeth. "Oh it was great, Scott took me to dinner _and_ a movie. Rightfully deserved too, since he hasn't been the best best-friend lately. Been too preoccupied with his hormones," he made a face but broke it with a grin, kidding. Derek's eyes must've flickered to the cabinet where they stashed the liquor because Stiles assured him, "and there was _no_ drinking, I swear. No more. At least until I'm legal, then I'll figure it out..."

He finished knitting the tale of his day and Derek tried to listen. Derek was terrible with words, so he wasn't sure how to articulate how right now he wanted to kiss him, grow with him, wrangle the rest of his life with him, keep him close. That might be coming on too strong, though. Maybe he shouldn't even say anything at all. Maybe Cora was right and he should just _show_ him. Could he do that?

He could try. "You want your birthday gift now or later?"

Stiles was busy finishing his cake and looked up quickly, interest peaked like a puppy. Purple icing stained the corner of his mouth. "You got me a birthday present?"

"Yeah?" Contrary to popular belief he wasn't a _total_ curmudgeon. Almost absently, Derek wiped the icing off with his thumb and rendered it between his fingers.

"Oh, thanks," Stiles chased the touch with his tongue and Derek tried not to groan. "Yeah I want it now," he nodded, bouncing the hat's ears.

"Then follow me."

"I have to go outside? What is it?"

"You won't know until you follow me." Foolproof ultimatum.

It worked. Stiles groaned but slipped his feet into two worn sandals. "I hate you a lot," he decided, following Derek out the door. "This had better be a new car. Wait holy crap _is_ it a new car? Oh, nevermind I forgot thats yours. I mean I'm all for the mileage and sensibility of a Toyota, but it doesn't really suit you."

"Shut up."

"Wait so if that's not it, then where are we going?" He asked, jogging down the drive to catch up with Derek who was already on the sidewalk.

"You'll see," he chastised. Stiles snorted.

Derek recalled a simpler time when his biggest problem was the fire that killed most of his family, not professing his feelings.

"Okay so what is it?" Stiles tried again, his flip flops slapping the concrete softly. The street lights watching over them washed him out, leaving only shades of gold behind, minus his dark eyes and the eyes of his hat. "Hey I said no more woods!" He whined when Derek veered off the sidewalk and into the dark security of the forest.

The actual, tangible gift was bouncing in the pocket of Derek's jacket, and he could've given it to him back at the house. But he needed to do this before he tucked tail. The moonlight spilling through the twists of the tree branches pulled at his bones, reminding him that he was, in fact, werewolf. He could tear apart these trees, bench press his own car. He'd _killed_ people. Where were all his guts now?

"Oh it's a full moon, I hadn't noticed. I guess this hat is pretty ironic," Stiles chuckled, amusing himself. "Wait a minute are you okay? You aren't gonna evolve into lambchop killing machine on me right?" He asked cautiously, holding his hands up in meager self-defense.

"I'm fine, Stiles."

"Just let me know so I can get a running start or something. I didn't bring a bat."

"Because _that_ would surely save you," Derek said dryly, masking his growing anxiety. Telling Stiles he liked him was a big enough gamble with their already strange relationship on its own without _also_ casually mentioning he'd anchored himself to the kid too. That delicate little thing would have to steep.

"Just making sure, since last month you denied being worried about it," he made a flippant gesture with his hand. "My leg is finally back in action and I'd like to not make a sequel. Because most sequels suck, just look at Spider Man."

Derek looked back and couldn't see the street anymore, so he stopped. "Are you ready?" He asked after weighing the option of running away versus doing this.

"If I was any readier I might explode with readiness and you'd have to scrape me up off the ground so yes."

"Good. Close your eyes."

"Seriously? Are you gonna propose?"

Not quite. "Just do it."

Stiles made an overly dramatic sound of exasperation, but did as told.

"Now hold out your hand." He did and Derek cupped it in his own. It was a small thing, but it made him feel better. Stiles fidgeted restlessly with closed eyes, crunching debris like cornflakes under his feet.

Then finally before anything in the world could change Derek's mind, he pushed Stiles' silly hat back from his head, freeing the tufts of his rumpled hair like flowers underneath snow and kissed his closed mouth for the first time with a deliberate carefulness. Not for too long considering he was just testing the water, but he couldn't stop the faltering smile he brushed into Stiles' barely responsive mouth, hearing his heart land a backflip.

He eased away to find Stiles with feverish eyes and mouth slack in dumb astonishment.

"Want your gift now?"

"I... Um..."

Derek placed his gift in the hand he still held. "Happy Birthday. Sorry I didn't wrap it," he said with shitty nonchalance.

Stiles blinked several times, like his server had crashed momentarily and he was just beginning to reboot. He looked down at his gift. "You got me _Grand Theft Auto V_?" He said in a tiny voice, picking it up with his free hand.

"Yeah. You don't uh, already have it do you?"

"No I uh, I was going to buy it with my birthday money," he said in the same austere voice, as if Derek had given him the necklace from the Titanic. Though it might as well have been, for the trouble he went through to brave the mall twice in a month.

Derek said that was good and they started the walk home in what could be described as a perilous silence. He waited for Stiles to say "what the hell was that", wipe his mouth off in disgust or even take a swing at him.

True to his nature Stiles couldn't stay quiet for long. "So uh, what was that about?"

Derek rubbed his jaw. "I don't really know." Maybe in hindsight, it wasn't such a good idea to do this on his _birthday_ , of all the other 364 days of the year.

"Welp," he clicked his tongue avoiding a crack in the driveway, " whatever it was, it was insanely classy. I guess I'd kiss anyone who bought me _GTAV_." He didn't sound angry or disgusted at all, just sarcastic.

Derek loosened up, a woosh of relief jello-ing his muscles. "Thats all it takes? I'll remember that."

Stiles glowered wordlessly, embarrassment coloring his face. Cora also might've been right about him being cute when bothered. "Well gee maybe if you hadn't sprung it on me I could've, like, y'know..." Derek watched, interested as a slow flood of blush crawled out from under the collar of his shirt and up his neck. "And you just- you can't just kiss a guy like that without a heads up! Of course I kissed like a dead goat!"

"I'll give you a do-over." Damn he was suave. He reached for Stiles' hand quietly to let him know he was just being facetious (sort of) and Stiles begrudgingly let him have it.

"So uh, what now?" Stiles asked, avoiding his stare in favor of watching their hands in the glow of the porch light. It was a much deeper question than he let on, like, 'what does this make us now?' And Derek pressed the gaps between his knuckles with his thumb in reply, because he wasn't sure. Because he was young and hadn't done this before, had no idea what he was getting into or what came after.

"Well, I'm dying to know what _Grand Theft Auto_ is about."

"The name sort of says it all," Stiles said like he couldn't resist a perfectly tart remark.

Derek just stared at him casually, like he usually did when he felt like he wanted to break his neck.

"But I guess there are other aspects," he amended, rudely interrupted by his phone ringing. He held a finger up and dug for his phone. His eyebrows drew together when he checked the number. "It's Scott's mom. Hello?"

Derek couldn't help listening in. "Stiles?" Melissa McCall's voice came through the line, an urgent chirp.

Stiles stole a look at Derek. "Uh, yeah what is it?"

Even over the phone Derek could feel the tight silence, hear the way she deliberately kept her voice calm when she said, "it's your father. He was shot."

Cold dread seized them both; the way Derek felt reflected off Stiles' face.

"What?" The word was tiny, broken, like a little piece of him chipped off.

"Stiles, honey, he's going to be okay," she soothed quickly. "The bullet grazed his side, he only needed stitches."

Stiles nodded quickly and swallowed, then remembered to talk. "Is he- can I see him?"

"Yes he should be waking up soon. Just please get here in one piece and Stiles, don't worry, I've got my eye on him."

"Okay." He lowered his phone and stared at the screen. His hand started to shake when he spoke. "Please tell me you heard all of that."

"I'll drive," Derek answered.

Stiles hardly spoke on the short drive to the hospital, and Derek watched him closely, worried of how wide his eyes had blown, how translucent his knuckles were as he dug into the edge of his seat.

Melissa was waiting when they all but burst through the doors. She gave Derek a second curious glance before hailing them down the hall and upstairs to where Stiles' father must be. The awful, too familiar hospital smell stung the back of Derek's throat.

"The bullet just grazed his side," the nurse talked as she led at a fast pace. "He was out in the field for a break in when -who I'm assuming was the burglar- shot your father when he tried to ditch the place."

"Did they catch the guy?" Stiles asked in a hard voice.

She shrugged. "As far as I know he was shot down at the scene. I swear I don't know what possess people to be so crazy. Oh, Stiles. I just remembered its your birthday," she apologized, squeezing his shoulder. Derek didn't feel so bad for kissing him now.

When they reached their destination, the sheriff was sitting up awake, twisting his wedding band around his finger. Stiles hung in the doorway, just staring. "Dad," Stiles called quietly, getting his attention.

Derek watched from what could've been another world as he looked up and motioned for Stiles to come to him. He pulled his son down into a hug so that he almost stumbled, indifferent of his tubes and wires. When Stiles came up, his eyes were glassy and he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"You okay?" His dad asked, still holding onto his wrists.

"Dad I'm fine, the better question is how are _you_?"

He laughed. "Been better. I just can't believe some punk ass got the jump on me. I must be getting old."

"You need to be more careful, dad. You know you're not all _007_ anymore," Stiles chastised. It was weird hearing him be the one to do the scolding.

He sighed. "You're right."

"Well it happens to the best of us," Melissa smiled, checking the patient clipboard. "Uh oh. Don't make a scene but we're gonna need to keep you overnight. Standard observation."

"Ah crap," he groaned. For a second he was the image of a much older Stiles. "No promises."

"I'll stay with you," Stiles volunteered quickly.

"Oh, no won't," he shook his head. "You've got school in the morning." It was such a 'dad' thing to say that Derek found himself trying not to snort.

"But! Dad, I'm not gonna just leave you here, you're in pain, and you'll get bored!"

"Son there's a TV right there," he pointed. "And you said so yourself, I'm old enough to be okay for one night in the hospital. Besides, Melissa is great company."

"That I am," she agreed.

"But-!"

"And I'm definitely not going to have you stay here for your birthday."

Something about the way he said it finalized the argument and Stiles closed his mouth with a sullen pout, shot down like a baby bird fresh from the nest.

"Son, I'll be fine."

"...Fine. But when there are only six TV channels and half of them are Spanish I can say I told you so."

They stayed for a while longer talking until Stiles' dad said he wanted to sleep and that Stiles should be doing the same. They hugged again and Derek told him he'd make sure Stiles got home okay.

Which he did, and they stood back at the GO on the front porch, inside the glow of the porch light. Had they really stood here discussing a video game an only hour ago? It could've been a week.

Stiles hands started to fail him again as he tried unlocking the knob and Derek gently took the key from him and did it himself. He pressed the key back into his palm and squeezed it closed.

"Do you want me to stay?" Derek asked, searching his somehow worn out and restless at the same time eyes.

Stiles worked his mouth and nodded like he didn't want to directly come out and ask. "Can you?"

"I will." He wanted to. After tonight? He wanted him in arms reach.

"Well then mi casa es tu casa, Miguel," he sighed, going inside. Sardonic behavior was a good sign, for him. He kicked off his sandals and went to get some water in the kitchen. Derek followed, deciding that now he _needed_ some cake and ate across from Stiles at the bar.

"I told him to go to work," Stiles said abruptly, hunched over with elbows pressed into the formica. "He wanted to stay but I told him to go and he got shot because of me."

Derek's fork hovered in front of his mouth. "That's all true but that doesn't make it your fault," he said seriously. "Your dad's job _is_ for him to be in danger."

"I know but it's just kind of ironic how out of _everything_ that goes on in this town, that a run of the mill suburbia bandit is what..." He dazed again, fingers fiddling with the rim of his cup. He was tired.

Derek put his fork down and stared at him. He wasn't sure what else to say to make him feel better. That whole, 'bad with words' condition. "Go get some sleep."

Stiles threw him a displeased 'don't tell me what to do' look but didn't argue, probably because he knew he'd lose. Derek took the stairs behind him, trying not to notice his backside. Stiles passed the threshold of his softly lit room and let go of a heavy sigh, like he was dropping his suitcase after a long trip away from home. He stretched his shirt over his head and tossed it in a random direction, then wrenched his dresser drawer open and rifled for something. Derek watched the cogs of his shoulder blades work, finding a clean white shirt and tripping out of his jeans. He collapsed on his bed and watched the ceiling, the way Derek liked to do when he relaxed there. Something about it was always comfortable, sharing the small space between them. Now he stood at the edge of it, dangling off a whole new angle.

Stiles peeked at him, tucking his chin. "As much as I appreciate your level of creeping, it makes it kind of hard for me to sleep."

Derek snapped out of it and started to leave. He'd sleep on the couch. Or try to. Maybe he'd go crazy and willingly watch television.

"Hey where're you going? You can sleep here," he offered, rolling to the side of his bed juxtaposed to the wall and smoothed the sheets. "Uh unless you don't want to, I know my bed is like sleeping on an ice cream sandwich and all," he debunked, like he thought it stupid to offer.

Derek tried not to look eager when he returned, sitting on the newly available space to bend over and kick off his boots and take off his shirt. "I like ice cream sandwiches."

Stiles snorted and Derek flopped back on the bed. When Stiles reached over him in the dark, he froze. But he was just turning off his lamp and grabbing a box of "Junior Mints?" He asked pretentiously. "You know you shouldn't eat candy before bed. Or in bed."

"It's my birthday leave me alone," he snipped, opening the box and picking a few tiny chocolate mints out. Then he grew somber and said, "it's just that... On my birthday my mom would always buy me these. And um, she'd let me stay up late and we'd always watch a movie together. Anyway I know that's really stupid, my dad still gets them for me, but it's just-" he tried to laugh but his throat caked up.

Derek regarded him with solemn eyes, and carded his fingers through the short hairs on the back of Stiles' neck. "It's not the same. I know."

Stiles worked his jaw and croaked, "when is your birthday?"

"I'm not saying."

Stiles turned and stabbed him with a look. Derek shrugged. "I don't celebrate it."

He rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine. Just tell me the day so I know when not to celebrate."

"September eleventh."

"Cool. I will definitely not be doing anything remotely fun that day in respect of your birthday," he swore, popping candy into his mouth. Derek said thanks stonily, accepting the candy he offered. They relaxed in silence, Derek continuing to comb through his scruff.

"So is that uh, 'do-over' still in effect or was it likea one time offer kinda thing?"

Derek raised his eyebrows, a little caught off guard at his spontaneity. "I guess so, if you're gonna do it now."

"Oh, that's good," Stiles quavered, propping up on his elbow to look at him, unsure of what to do. Derek helped out by reeling him back in.

Stiles kissed like a live goat the second time around, though maybe better than a goat. He even pulled at Derek's bottom lip and it was unlike anything because he laughed a little into his mouth, returning the warm taste of minty chocolate. It should've been gross but he didn't care. He squeezed Stiles' neck tenderly and bit him back, exploring this new pastime. He only pulled back when Stiles' heart sounded like it was climbing up his throat.

"It's weird," Stiles murmured, attached to Derek at the forehead.

"It is."

"No I mean your beard. It hurts but I kind of like it."

"Really?" Derek smiled without pretense and rubbed his cheek to his.

"Gah not like that!" He giggled. When their eyes met again, Stiles had something in his, the same wide-eyed vulnerability from that day at the creek, the same question he'd asked earlier: "what now?" Derek was pretty sure they both knew what they _could_ do now; hell he did just literally jump into bed with him. He surprised himself realizing wanted to, but what he wanted more was to preserve this: the new and unused kisses, shared breath on a tiny twin bed where they couldn't not touch each other.

So the werewolf kissed the human's forehead, this time with eyes open, and told him to go to sleep.

"You expect me to sleep after that?" He whispered incredulously.

"You have school tomorrow, not me."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sounded like a dolphin pooping on a trampoline right? Anyways as a small gift, I actually wrote two pieces of filth for you to laugh at:  
> [Here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1239646), Stiles has a very intimate dream (at least I'm just calling it a dream because it makes no sense...)  
> and [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1209211), from s3ep19, Nogitsune!Stiles and Scott have an an alternate ending...  
> Anyway thanks for reading!


	20. Boyfriend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Stiles suddenly bent over almost in his face to follow the girl on the screen, then slowly dragged his hands up his leg to snap back up, haunches literally jiggling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go ahead. Hit me. No seriously, I deserve it for making you wait this long. Never trust a word I say.  
> Anyways hope you enjoy this new installment and as always I have no clue what I'm doing.  
> [Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eemj1_e6dek)!

 

 

Stiles jittered restlessly on the edge of the kitchen counter, poised over the toaster. "Come on _come on_ ," he muttered to the appliance.

"Ever heard of 'a watched pot never boils'? Same concept," Derek shouldered him out of the way to grab a ceramic mug from the shelf above him and pour himself some fresh coffee from the pot.

"Hey a simple 'excuse me' would be appreciated," he said loudly, annoyed. It wasn't Derek's fault he didn't get out of bed on time, and was now begging the toaster to speed up his breakfast. Or maybe it was.

He'd had to revel in it, for awhile. He woke up with Stiles' head tucked under his neck, his sticky morning breath ghosting Derek's bare chest. He seemed small there, with his arms folded into his chest. He knew Stiles was awake, but he didn't say anything. All the weightlessness of the night before had turned to lead, and he was a bit hesitant to move, break this little thing they had. But the sun crept into the room brighter and brighter, making the comfortable dark crawl back to its corners and Stiles spoke up.

"You awake?"

"Yeah." Derek said.

Stiles fidgeted under him, tickling his neck with his hair. "I had this dream. It was... it was really weird. You were there- wolf you- and I was just running through the woods. Running away from you."

His stomach froze. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But like it wasn't you it was the you I saw in the nightmares," he stressed. It didn't make him feel any better. "I got to this huge cliff where I couldn't get any farther, and suddenly  _you_  you were there. You had blue eyes, I think. Anyway the wolf you lunged at me, but you you roared so loud that everything shook and wolf you just disappeared, like smoke. And then we were at the vet's office I think and you said something like, 'never again'? I dunno it was just weird," he concluded quickly, embarrassed.

Derek laughed softly and smoothed a hand down Stiles' bicep. "Because it won't happen again. Not while I'm here," he said to the wall behind Stiles, which was easier than saying such heartful words to his face. "And I'm not leaving anytime soon."

They didn't move to get out of bed until Stiles was running late.

Stiles tried to push him out of the way now to get to the coffee pot and ended up jamming himself between Derek's unyielding tree trunk body and the counter. "I think you mean to say 'excuse me'," Derek offered, sipping his coffee innocently.

"How about move your furry ass?" He simmered, losing his fire due to the way his ass pressed into to Derek's hip bone. He stubbornly continued to get his coffee anyway and Derek inched away slightly, freeing him to go to the fridge and fix it with milk, noticing the rose tint of his ears.

Stiles' phone sang from his back pocket and he cursed the universe before answering it. "Stiles is everything okay? I heard about your dad," Scott's voice fed anxiously through the line.

"Oh man I forgot to call you," he bopped himself on the head. "Yeah dude, everything's fine."

Derek could hear the alpha's relieved smile, "oh good. Yeah my mom told me everything. She said you went home and didn't stay- I could've stayed with you at your house, y'know. Were you okay?"

"Oh I was uh totally fine but thanks, I'm sorry like I said I didn't even think to call you..."

"And she said Derek was with you? What were you guys doing?"

Stiles glanced at Derek for an answer he didn't give and the toaster finally sprung, making him jump. "Jesus! No everything's fine Jesus isn't here Scott. We uh, he was just, y'know, _over_ and that's when I got the call to go to the hospital," he explained, careful not to lie or give the whole truth.

"Derek actually came over for your birthday?" Scott asked, teetering between amazement and amusement.

"Yeah he did, actually, because he's just so soft on the inside, a total MilkyWay," he quipped as he picked his hot waffles out of the toaster and burnt his fingers in his haste. Derek rolled his eyes at no one in particular.

Scott laughed. "So you're coming to school today, right?"

"Yeah, if you hang up the phone so I can get there," he spit.

"Geez fine," Scott bemoaned, and told him not to forget his gear for tryout before hanging up.

"God I'm glad he has a short attention span. Likea puppy," he sighed, setting his phone down to smear peanut butter on his waffles and chomp into them.

"Why didn't you just tell him I was here?" Derek asked. "He'll smell it on you anyway. And some other things." He told Stiles how werewolves didn't only smell people or things, they could smell emotions too. And their alpha friend would probably notice the oversweet cloud of infatuation clinging to both of them like a perfume. "Though he might not even recognize what it is." Though he doubted that.

"Well, great. This might be the most awkward conversation I'll ever have with my best friend. And he's told me about his and Allison's sexual adventures." He shuddered inwardly.

"At least he hasn't told you about him and Isaac. Yet," Derek mused.

"Oh, God," he heaved with a mock gag around his breakfast. "I really do _not_ need to know that much about _another_ person's nipples."

Derek raised his eyebrows and shook his head before he could be offered clarification. Stiles glanced up at the stove clock and cursed again. "I gotta go." He scooped up his backpack and dashed away before turning on his heel with a squeak and racing back to grab his phone, remembering to flash Derek a hurried smile and a "see you later!" Only when the door slammed behind him did Derek notice his shirt was on backwards.

Derek sighed. "Idiot." He picked up the second waffle Stiles had neglected to eat and took a bite out of it. Pretty good. He leaned on the island and regarded the empty house, feeling the quiet settle on him like dust and realized he had... Nothing to do today. He returned the peanut butter to the fridge and headed upstairs.

Back in the bedroom Derek looked for his phone, deciding to text Stiles about his shirt before someone called him out on it. He picked articles of clothing off the floor, searching under them. How did he live comfortably in the midst of this mess? After looking around and giving up, he sat on the floor, held a red shirt close and sniffed it. Clean. He folded it and started a pile for clean things, throwing dirty things in the hamper. He crammed the clean folded clothes into the dresser and all the shoes in a pile by the door. The bookshelf, too, begged for his attention; crumpled papers, an empty Dr. Pepper can, books and CDs spilling to the floor like there'd been no time to clean up after a recent earthquake.

He figured what the heck, and started reshelving the mistreated items when his phone rang. Under the bed, duh, that's where everything ran away to. "Hey, Cora," he answered.

"Everything okay?" She asked.

How many times did this question need to be answered before it was satisfied? "Yeah, everything's fine," he assured. He told her about accident with Stiles' dad, purposely leaving out everything else about last night. But she wasn't deterred.

"So, you guys flesh it out?"

"Uh," he made the perfect dubious expression, forgetting he was on the phone. "No."

"Not even a little?"

"Cora."

She barked a laugh and he rolled his eyes, returning to the shelf. "Well what then?" She tried. God she was so much like Laura. His older sister seem to have _lived_ for making him uncomfortable; grilling him about things as cumbersome as his young sex life to his bad grades. That must just be what sisters are for.

"We're on the same page," he settled after a pause, glad Cora wasn't aware he was telling a terrible book related pun.

"Uh huh," she enunciated the syllables deliberately, and he could picture her cradling the phone with her neck, laying back on the old puffy upholstered chaise lounge with her legs crossed at the knees.

"Mhm." The spine of a certain book caught his eye and he almost laughed. _The Giver_. Now isn't that familiar. More like _The Taker_.

"You know you can tell me anything," Cora reminded him lightly. "Did you at least kiss?"

Hello middle school. "Yes," he bit, after taking a long pause. "He appreciated his game." He opened a little folded patch of notebook paper and his heart plunged.

It was the note he left, the day he left town to find another alpha. A stupid little piece of paper, a stupid little token of his failure. Stiles had kept it all this time, on his shelf next to a wee ceramic bowl he must've made in elementary school art class, full of fortunes from Chinese takeout fortune cookies. He read a few, recognizing them.

"Hey, you there?"

"What?"

"Do you ever listen? I asked if it was good."

"Uh, yeah," he said dumbly, too busy processing the thoughts poking holes in him, emotion trickling out. He really wanted to put his note down the garbage disposal but Stiles would probably notice and that'd be rude, so he put it back where he found it, making sure to fold it the same way.

"Are you busy? What are you doing?"

That moment where you realize you're cleaning your friend's room and going through their things like an obsessive compulsive stalker. He stacked the last CD with a satisfying clack of plastic, ignoring the urge to just mess it all to hell and erase the fact that he was ever here.

"Nothing. I'll be home later, okay? Then I'll tell you about it," he promised.

"You better," she warned, and disconnected.

________

The afternoon sun had Derek's toes steaming in his shoes, the hot ridges of the steel bleachers cut red pinstripes into his palms. This brought him back to when he was one of these apprehensive boys, showing off on the field, or nervously tapping their cleats on the bleacher steps waiting for the hammer of their athletic futures to drop.

Isaac sat next to him, having already played the field for their coach without breaking a sweat, only matted his curls from wearing a helmet. The top row barrier of chain link eased with a soft jangle as Isaac relaxed into it, cool eyes trained on the field. Derek knew he was watching Scott out there playing goalie at the post, the same way Derek was watching Stiles bounce on the balls of his feet in line to shoot.

"Coach is making Scott team captain again," Isaac said, low enough so the other  hopeful boys around wouldn't hear. "I think he knows no one has a chance at beating him, with Jackson gone."

Was that pride? "Well what about you?" Derek asked, sparing him a glance. "Aren't you just as good?"

"No," Isaac smiled, one side of his mouth crimping to show white teeth. "He's better than me. I prefer being co-captain anyway, there's less... Responsibility."

"Makes sense," Derek bent inward to rest his elbows on his knees and watched Stiles advance in line. "So, has Stiles gotten better or worse since last year?"

The blonde's mouth hung open a little in thought. "Well, he hasn't gotten _worse_ , but I don't know about better."

"Oh. Great."

Stiles scooped up the ball Scott tossed, and Derek heard him shout "c'mon on Stiles!" with a supportive "whoo!" and Stiles griped something ambiguous about not being four years old anymore. He seemed to draw a sharp breath before he re-adjusted his stance, and made his shot.

Scott just missed it, and not on purpose either. He looked up at his best friend and Derek saw the pearly crack of his grin through his goalie mask. "Alright!" He hooted. Stiles caught the ball again with a remark and their coach told them to cut out the flirting. Stiles made three more close goals, then Scott put an end to his streak with an easy block to the left. Scott cheered again and Stiles quickly cut away from the field to the bleachers after someone whistled. He tromped up the steel steps, bringing his familiar scent and tang of sweat. A tiny smirk played on his lips and disappeared when he unhinged his helmet and saw Derek.

"Yo, Derek," he shook his matted hair out to hide his obvious surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Yeah actually, why _are_ you here?" Isaac echoed, maybe just now considering it.

He shrugged. "I came to see you play. You did good," he praised, liking the way Stiles coyly basked in the glow of it.

"You didn't see him play the entire time," Isaac blunted, the conjunction of appraisals making Stiles fumble and trip over his gear.

"Hey just shut up Mr. 'Dating the Captain so I get to be co-Captain' co-Captain, who also is a mythical creature so things come easily," Stiles spit, planting himself close to Derek and ripped off his pads, the Velcro tearing made Derek's ears twitch.

"I don't even understand what you just said," Isaac said contentedly, getting up to saunter down and leave them alone.

"Seriously how does Scott put up with Mr.Witty Wolf?" Stiles griped.

"The same way I put up with you, Sargent Sarcasm."

"Yeah? Which is?"

"I like you," Derek said as aloof as he could, and tripped himself up when he snickered, remembering what Stiles had said awhile ago. You like who you like, regardless of everything. Despite his better judgement Derek just happened to be drawn towards this slight smile, these impatient eyebrows, this chin peppered with stubble. Warm skin, cool hands nimble from playing video games. An annoying, unappreciated genius. A defiant wiseass with a loyal heart.

"I like you too," Stiles' voice cracked and he continued to fidget with his gear that didn't look like it needed to be fidgeted with anymore. "Now when do we start the montage of trying on hats for each other?"

If nobody was around right then, Derek liked to think he would've gathered his face in his hands and kissed him with enough force to make both their heads spin.

"Whenever you're up for it."

Shortly afterward they met Scott and Isaac on the dewy grass of the field and talked. But soon Derek felt curious eyes nibbling at him and Stiles, so he threw a bone. "Go ahead and ask."

"I knew it," Isaac immediately claimed and crossed his arms, satisfied with Derek's confession.

"What do you mean you _knew_?" Stiles squeaked.

"Woah you guys, you're like, woah," Scott grinned like an idiot, or like someone seeing a new litter of puppies, both of which was equally uncomfortable. "Weird."

"So is it just like a sex thing or...?" Isaac asked, and Scott threw him wide eyes. Derek stabbed him with the perfect amount of skeptic exasperation in his gaze. "Uh, sorry. You aren't really a show and tell kind of guy, I get it."

Stiles recovered after choking on something. "Geez you think?"

Scott took the wheel and tried to turn the course of the conversation toward light stuff until the wild-haired, crazy eyed middle-aged man that was their coach steamrolled over to their clique. "Hey, practice is over so get the heck outta here unless you're gonna run laps for me. Because it's not like _I_ have any plans or anything," he drilled.

"Sorry Coach, we're leaving," Scott apologized.

He said that was good, then noticed Derek and gave him an measured leer. "Who the hell are you?"

Stiles piped up first, "oh that's just my cousin, _Miguel_ ," he grinned a little too wide for a simple introduction, the shit head. "He's visiting from L.A."

Derek grunted a hello and the coach studied the 'cousins', as if he'd be able to tell if they were lying or not. "Well, okay. I mean, don't know where the genes went wrong with you, Stilinski, but okay." He went away grumbling and Stiles told them to shut up before they had a chance to say anything.

 

_______

Blue is a good color. Everybody likes blue. So blue was the color Derek, Cora and even Peter were brushing on the house. It glimmered like tinfoil in the glaring sun, like the smooth blue current of his and Stiles' creek. The smell stuck in his nose and he was tired after they'd scraped what was left of the old coat of paint off the wood siding and scrubbed it clean. But it would be worth it once it was all done.

"You know you could've hired someone for this," Peter said haughtily, somehow being completely clean after hours of working.

"You know you don't have to help," Derek replied, reaching on tiptoe from the top ladder step. Peter rolled his eyes and continued painting. His uncle spent most of his time in a high class apartment downtown, above a block of antique stores and bars. He only ever came around when he needed a 'favor' or wanted to hang out with his favorite niece. Derek wasn't sure how she could stand him.

"He's just here because Scott's mom shot him down," Cora jabbed. She on the other hand lost a fight with a paint roller; blue hair, blue freckles and blue hands. His little sister lived of her own accord. She'd stay at the house for awhile, spend some nights out, go off with Peter, or just go off alone without giving any heads up, which worried him slightly. He had to remind himself she'd spent a long while on her own, and probably had a life.

Peter _psh_ 'ed. "As if. But no I haven't spoken to her since Derek's _boyfriend_ ruined our what would've been perfect evening. She was so gorgeous... The way those dark eyes glittered, just like stars." He sighed regrettably.

That word (boyfriend) grated on Derek's brain. "You mean when you tried turning her and he saved her life? I guess nothing is enjoyable for you unless someone dies." Derek himself didn't have much of a life, he didn't have a job, a pet, or even a friend his own age. Which was pretty sad. What kept him going was remodeling this house, whatever he and Stiles were doing, and taking care of occasional threats to the pack. It was enough. And he didn't mind having the house to himself.

When the front face of the house was finished and the sun sent shadows sloping to the east, they stopped for the day. He and Cora rinsed the brushes and rollers with the hose and stored them neatly when Derek got a message from Stiles.

_Guess whos now only FOURTH worst on the team?_

Another message intercepted him before he could reply to the first.

_ME. Come over so we can celebrate (:_

Celebrate? _Will do_ , he texted.

He was knocking on the Stilinski door in under twenty minutes, only noticing on the commute how he smelled in his dirty clothes, saw the blue paint stuck to his hands and arms. He was picking it out of his arm hair and listening to whatever music was playing inside the house when the door opened.

"Derek," Mr. Stilinski stood in the threshold, clad in uniform, with crossed arms guarding his friendly expression. After various accounts of casual greetings he'd warmed up to it, maybe no longer assuming trouble was in tow whenever Derek showed up. "I guess you got the news."

He nodded, fire in his belly beginning to fizzle out. They probably weren't going to celebrate the way Derek was thinking of with the Sheriff of Beacon Hills on watch.

"Well come in," he allowed. Then he added in a low voice, "just a forewarning, he's um, playing a new game." Derek said thanks with a dip of eyebrows and followed him to the living room, to the source of the music.

"Sup dude," Stiles waved, while dancing. Yes, _dancing_. If you can count dancing as mimicking the moves of a simulated girl dancing to a Katy Perry song on the TV screen.

Derek slid the sheriff a sideways glance.

He shrugged like 'what can you do?' before heading upstairs to leave them alone. Poor guy never caught a break.

Stiles finished his song, or whatever, and hailed the werewolf over. "You wanna play?"

Derek flopped on the couch behind him, hoping all his body art was dry. "No."

"Why not? It's so fun," he said, flicking the air to control the game via some magic camera. He must've upgraded from shooting hookers and stealing cars, now to twirling around like a trained animal for the highest score. It was frightening, on some level.

"I'm good. So only fourth worst this year? That makes you, what? Sixteenth best?" Derek cocked his head slightly.

"Actually _fifteenth_ best for your information. Not that I'm, y'know, whatever."

"Right. Was this your idea of celebrating?" Derek asked dryly.

"Well at first I was going to buy myself a cake that said 'Congrats To Myself For Not Sucking As Much As Last Year' but that looked a little too desperate and that's too long to write on a cake so I got this game instead," he panted. "It's keeping me limber."

Derek threw a pleading look to the ceiling fan.

"Sure you won't play?" He offered again.

"Very sure."

Stiles flicked his wrist and selected another song, huffing. "Fine. You room-cleaning freak."

Derek watched him dance, earning gold flashes and laughing at himself when he tripped up. Soon his eyes wandered down to Stiles' ass as he bounced around, noticing it bounce along. He couldn't help it, it was right there blocking his view of the TV, more or less.

And Stiles suddenly bent over almost in his face to follow the girl on the screen, then slowly dragged his hands up his leg to snap back up, haunches literally jiggling.

Oh.

Why had he never noticed this? Well, he'd noticed it but not from these new parameters. When he was... what? _Allowed_? To look at his ass? He was doing it anyway. It was nice, nicer than most people's without regular exercise. Some people were just lucky like that. He wanted to reach out and touch it, casually stick his hand in his back pocket to make his ears red. What would it be like to squeeze it, bring their hips together in a kiss? Test the bare flesh there like he'd never dreamt of...

"Dude."

Derek averted his eyes but it was too late, Stiles was leering at him.

"Were you just... staring at my ass?"

"No."

He squinted. "You totally were."

Derek raised his eyebrows and motioned for him to come closer. When he did Derek snatched him by the shirt collar and brought their faces close. "Just take the compliment," he said in a low voice, feeling the warm puff of Stiles' surprised breath on his nose.

Stiles' eyes widened, showing off their color. "Okay, no need to disembowel me," he swallowed. His eyes flickered downward to his hands planted on Derek's knees.

Derek bit the inside of his lip to hide a smirk, and kissed the edge of Stiles' mouth.

"Um, D-Derek?" Stiles pulled at the hand in his collar, holding onto it.

Derek brought a hand up to cradle the boy's neck. "What?" he smiled fondly, just wanting to kiss his anchor more.

"I have to pause the game."

"Forget the game."

"You don't get it I gotta pause it or else my score-!"

Derek hushed him with a full on kiss, jerking his collar again to bring Stiles onto his lap. His knees dug into the cushions on either side of Derek, butt resting on his thighs. Stiles' weight, as always, was like nothing as he melted into Derek, surrendering to his advance. Derek kissed down the edge of his chin to his Adam's apple, felt it bob as he swallowed, skin getting hot everywhere.

He was pretty sure Stiles was new at this. He seemed like he wasn't sure where to put his restless hands; dragging them down Derek's dirty shirt front a few times before coming to loop around his neck. He went in to kiss Derek's neck and bumped his nose on his jaw. But Derek didn't care. It was cute.

"Uh..."

They snapped apart, finding the Sheriff regarding them precariously, like he was looking over the edge of a tall building he didn't want to fall from. Derek hadn't heard him coming over the sound of smacking lips, music and the thunder of Stiles' heart. Or maybe it was his own.

"H-hey dad..." Stiles popped his lips carefully, craning his neck. He sort of seemed to realize his position and fell to the floor in his effort to get up quickly.

Papa Stilinski let go of a breath and shook his head like he was just too tired for all this gross business. "Just wanted to know where you put the paper clips."

"Oh. Oh right! _They_... are on you desk, third drawer down," Stiles bounced up. "And Derek here was just leaving so uh, I'll just, I'm just gonna show him out," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

His dad performed tricks with his forehead wrinkles. "Yeah. You do that. Be seeing you, Derek," he tacked on, making the nicest warning he'd ever heard.

Derek nodded, kind of wanting to die, and slowly followed his anchor to the door.

"Well uh..." Stiles hung on the open door handle, stuck in the epitome of awkwardness. "See you later?"

"If there isn't an APB out on me, sure."

"Right... Well here's hoping," he grinned sheepishly, and Derek turned to leave. "Wait hang up," he grabbed the wolf's arm and stepped in front of him. "You still haven't told me what you want for your birthday."

This again. His birthday was next week and Stiles couldn't leave it alone, insisting on doing something, giving him something. He thought about just leaving town for the day as he stared at the determined boy in front of him. "Nothing."

"No! You can't want  _nothing_ ," he said, mimicking Derek's low grumble. "Nothing is nothing and therefore doesn't technically exist, so... Just tell me. Something. Anything."

Derek pretended to think about it, theatric lightbulb going off overhead. "How about a zipper?"

Stiles blinked. "I mean if that's... What you want?"

"Yeah, one to glue to your mouth so I can make you shut up whenever I want."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "You're not funny at all, I hope you realize that."

Derek shrugged, kissing his forehead.

Stiles scrubbed his forhead off with his hand, wrinkling his nose. "You are such a kisser."

Derek thumped him on the back of the head and turned to leave again.

“Owh.. You _will_  tell me!” Stiles whisper-called before retiring to his home and Derek slowly got in his car, letting everything he was feeling settle.

"So I guess you weren't lying that time you said you could be gay, huh?" He heard Stiles' father say from inside the house.

"Well I _told_ you so! And the correct terminology is bisexual, just fyi!"

"Yeah, okay son."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I figured no chapter is complete without a messy paragraph about Stiles' ass.  
> Btw, follow me if you want [here](http://calamity-annie.tumblr.com) on tumblr for updates, blogging of stupid shit (mostly supernatural and teen wolf), and sometimes my art. Thanks, see you next time.


	21. A quest!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “For the hundredth time, I cannot physically package nothing. It’s an intangible thing. You could at least say ‘an empty box, Stiles, I’d love an empty box’. Now that, that’s something I can do. You’re asking me for something I can’t even do, which is unfair. And rude. I already promised you I wouldn't plan anything fun for your birthday, because you have a distinct allergy to fun. You said nothing about gifts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who got their shit together? I apologize for the random change from past to present tense. Forewarning: we're nearing the end here!

Besides looking at a calendar, Derek always knows when his birthday is approaching. When the shadows slant longer and the air in them just barely starts getting that crisp feeling he enjoys. But it's also the time when he can't go anywhere without seeing Halloween decorations in full swing. Why do they do that, anyway? Have holiday decorations out over a month early so by the time Halloween makes its exit there's a noisy blow up Santa Claus loitering outside every drugstore.

Derek inspects the window ledge before him, making sure there’s no overlap of white on blue. He drops his angle brush in the empty paint tray and wipes his hands off on his shorts, making white smears of paint that will dry brittle like the old ones beneath. After today, the exterior painting of the new Hale house will be complete. Or as Stiles so cleverly ventured: the "were-house". Seeing as it's inhabitants are mainly of lycanthropic nature. Stiles was proud of that play on words.

And Derek is kind of proud of himself. He turned a discovery from an ugly chapter of his life into something... good. He likes pulling up the dirt drive to see his big bright house waiting for him in the midst of these woods. Like something out of one of those house remodeling shows, promising quiet and the nice kind of empty space that helps him think and sleep. He's started spending most of his spare time cleaning up the interior; replacing the seemingly endless broken odds and ends, finding pieces of furniture either on the side of the road or from a store, figuring out how to get cable television so everyone would shut the hell up and veg out to TLC. As penance for his philanthropy, the people at Home Depot now know him on a first name basis. " Hello, Derek. What do you need today?" Or "Hey it's the homemaker! That new toilet seat easy enough to install for you?"

Sometimes though there are other cars parked here first. Cora's Toyota is around most often, as is Stiles' Jeep during the weekends and whenever he can make it around on after school hours. Scott's bike sometimes _vrum vrum_ 's up to the house too, hardly ever without Isaac glued on the back seat. Sometimes Peter will slink around for reasons unknown and it gives Derek the chance to tell him to go back to sewer he crawled out of-- which is satisfying.

Derek glances over at Stiles now, whom is carefully edging the window ledge he's been entrusted to paint. He's been helping Derek renovate when he visits, bringing a side order of grumbling about whatever task he's been assigned whenever Derek is on what Stiles calls a "renovation bender". Listening to him whine periodically and "try to help" is worth the while when they get distracted.

Distractions start with stray touches on each other that lead to stray kisses, which leads to adopted kisses and squeezes on sweet spots in someplace out of the ordinary, like the dirty cellar floor. Sometimes they'll head to the swimming hole and really waste some time, coming home too tired to do much besides eat and sleep. Stiles will make sure to remind him that he needed the break, and Derek will let him.

Stiles sighs and sits back on his butt, dropping his brush on his paint tray. "Please tell me that was the last one."

"That was the last one."

"Okay, please tell me you weren't lying about it being the last one."

Eye roll. "I didn't lie about it being the last one."

"Good," Stiles groans, tilting his head up and stretching his arms out behind his back. Derek can hear his joints pop back into place. Or out of place. Maybe Derek will rub his back later. They rinse their brushes out by the hose where they've made a colored patch of ground over the days of paint runoff, and Derek aims the hose in the air once to let the the water fall on them in a cold mist. Stiles doesn’t even protest, he’s that wrung out. They pick up the rest of their materials, head into the house (probably tracking dirt, ugh) and down the stairs to the cellar.

“So...” Stiles begins, casually leant against the dryer, and Derek holds back a face because he just knows what’s going to come out of his mouth next. “What do you want for your birthday?”

Ding ding ding. Derek peels his shirt off and reaches around Stiles to drop it in the hamper. “Nothing.”

Stiles makes the same sort of shot down, exhausted hunch of his shoulders, sad face expression he’d made when Derek answered him this yesterday. And the day before that. Really he's been asking everyday for the past week. “For the hundredth time, I cannot physically package _nothing_. It’s an intangible thing. You could at least say ‘an empty box, Stiles, I’d love an empty box’. Now that, that’s something I can do. You’re asking me for something I can’t even do, which is unfair. And rude. I already promised you I wouldn't plan anything fun for your birthday, because you have a distinct allergy to fun. You said nothing about gifts.”

Derek ignores the boy’s drilling stare and moves on to his shorts, shucking them and tossing them in the hamper to join his shirt. The washer can’t get all the paint out, but whatever. He catches Stiles’ eyes as they quickly graze over him, temporarily losing his static.

“Okay then,” Derek decides, “I’ll take an empty box. A red one.”

Stiles recharges and opens his mouth once, twice, before snapping, “I didn’t actually _mean_ that when I said it!”

Derek shrugs theatrically, hands in the air, and he must be a sight standing here in only flip flops and boxer briefs. He thanks the universe that no one else is home. “Well darn. I’ll have to think of something else now. I’m going to shower. If you want I’ll wash your clothes and you can borrow some of mine.”

Stiles twitches, but strips down anyway. “If it wouldn’t break my fingers I’d hit you in your chiseled face,” he mutters, standing there with a face full of scowl and blush.

“Good call.”

Derek is grateful to watch him ascend the stairs first, quickly, arms wrapped around himself like he knows Derek is appreciating the gray boxer briefs contouring his bum. He heads to the downstairs bathroom, Stiles shadowing him along the way.

“Need something?” Derek asks casually, cranking the shower knob and sticking his hand under the spray to test the temperature.

“Mmmnothing in particular,” Stiles drawls. Derek turns, breath almost catching in his throat. Stiles probably doesn’t mean to look like an underwear model striking a “casual” pose against the wall, picking house paint out from under his nails-- but he comes across that way. “Just wondering what  to get you for your birthday, is all." There's mock innocence shading his words.

“Stiles,” Derek's growl plays an undercurrent to his already clipped words. “I already told you.”

It's not that he doesn't want Stiles to get him anything (though he's actually wary about what Stiles might get him). He's just not a "birthday" person, and never has been. When his mother was alive, she used to get him his favorite three-layer chocolate cake and he'd tell her thank you for birthing him and that was about it. Without the "happy family" aspect around to celebrate and hang ugly streamers, it's just another year closer to an inevitable, possibly gruesome death. Nothing to get excited about. Plus there's really nothing he wants because everything he wants is standing right here in his underwear, working on slowly pestering him to death.

Stiles pushes off the wall to stand toe to toe with him. “But you might think of something. So I’m going to stay here until, until you do,” he stops a bit, like he's just now realizing this is a feeble ploy. But he stands his ground and glues his eyes to Derek's. Stubborn underwear model.

It gives Derek the upper hand. “Alright then,” he says. He reaches down without a word and slips his briefs off, leaving them on the tile at his feet. Stiles’ eyes are still determinedly glued to his, but they’ve blown wide and his lungs take a pause. His jaw tightens visibly, as his neck and face steep scarlet. Derek steps over the lip of the tub and into the shower, deviously-intentionally leaving the curtain open as an invitation. He  listens to Stiles' rabbit heart over the water beating his bare chest.

Stiles clears his throat, captivated by the light fixture on the ceiling. "Did- did you think of anything yet?"

Derek tampers his grin and rinses shampoo out of his hair before moving onto his body with a washcloth. "Not yet."

"Yep. Didn't think so," Stiles sighs. He picks at his fingernails, taps his feet and bites his lips before finally muttering, "screw it," and steps into the shower in front of Derek.

Derek is about to say something smart but it gets lost when Stiles' arousal hits the water and positively _blooms_. It's a heady and frustrated tang that sits in the back of the wolf's throat and ignites trails of fire in him, eating up his stomach down to his bits. He's smelled it before but only just so, like a perfume sample in a magazine. This is powerful, infinitely pouring off of Stiles and down the drain and makes his mouth water.

"Aren't you kind of forgetting something?" Derek swallows, eyeing Stiles' briefs that cling to him, sticky and black. He has to swallow again.

"So I'm cripplingly self-conscious, sue me," Stiles bites. He has the gall to cross his arms as water cuts rivulets from his sodden hair stuck to his forehead, down his hot cheeks to drip off his nose. "Any ideas?" Stiles asks again. He reaches across Derek for the soap and gets too much, then starts washing himself in a jerky, self-conscious frenzy. It helps to drown his fumes, if only a bit.

Instead of wasting another "no", Derek spins Stiles around to face away. Derek gets to work, kneading between his shoulder blades and above, using a steady pressure via the heels of his palms.

"Woah _oh_. Oh sweet and sticky baby _Jesus_ ," Stiles groans out and as weird as that exclamation is, it stirs the coals below Derek's belly.

Stiles nails his arms to the tile wall as Derek kneads tight circles into his trapezius. His skin is soft as always and slick with soap, making it easy to attack the hard buttons of knots with his thumbs and rub them out. He travels further south, working in slow circles until his hands breach the fabric stuck to the curve of his ass, and this time he doesn't stop there. He slides his hands inside to palm the mounds of smooth flesh and they clench reflexively under his grasp, to which Stiles yelps accordingly.

"Aah! H-holy crap. That's a uh, a tight grip you have there..." Stiles trembles, submitting himself to Derek's less than gentle touch, surging with the rhythm of Derek's palms kneading circles into his cheeks for a moment.

Derek is getting hard now, angry red length like a compass pointing North, in this case North being Stiles oozing with his overzealous perfume. He gives one more blunt-nailed squeeze before relinquishing the boy's ass and snapping the band of his briefs.

Stiles shudders, fingers curling on the wall and it sends Derek back in time, remembering how he found Stiles cowering on the dirty floor of the locker room. Small and struggling for breath. Those perfect eyes, so blown out with the fear he'd put in them. He pulls Stiles close to his chest, kissing the curve of his ear and breathing him in once before stepping out of the shower.

He has a towel around his waist and is headed out when Stiles snaps out of his docility. "Hey that's not fair!" He argues, stumbling out of the shower, still running. His face and neck are a flustered scarlet, his heart still bounding away through his ribs. "You used your mojo on me. You know I can't handle that. Will you please just tell me what you want?"

Right about now Derek wants little more than to jump Stiles' bones on the bathroom floor with the door still open, tear those sticky briefs right off the conspicuous hard-on bulging through the stretchy cotton and--

"You really want to know?" Derek teases the boy although his throat is tight, edging closer to him with slow steps. In each other's space again, Derek draws Stiles' hips to knock with his own, hands smoothing over milky hips.

"A bazillion times _yes_ ," Stiles whines, hardly masking his terrified excitement with annoyance.

Derek kisses a smirk into Stiles' lips, tasting his little release of breath. Stiles kisses him back more urgently, his hands coming up to Derek's neck. So good. He pulls back and has to steady Stiles' eager body as he tilts forward.

"I want a chocolate cake," Derek says.

Stiles' eyebrows dip over his squinting eyes. "You want... A chocolate cake?"

Derek slips a towel off the rack and wraps it around Stiles' shoulders like he would a child. "A chocolate ganache," he clarifies.

It takes him a second but Stiles snaps out of his virginal fog for the second time today with a shake of the (wet) head. "Hang on, what the hell's a _ganache_?"

"Look it up. Oh, and if you decide to throw me some kind of wild surprise party-- I'll be building your coffin." Derek lightly pats the side of the boy's face before retiring to his room to dress, leaving him more or less frazzled. A frazzled underwear model.

He's well aware that he was just the biggest cock-tease in history, but at least now Stiles has something to go by. Something small and safe enough for him to handle. And more importantly: something to shut up about.

****  
  


*

****  
  


Derek is chest-deep in the foul smelling belly of, well, the cabinet under the kitchen sink when Cora kicks his outstretched leg.

"Yo, happy Birthday," she says.

"Thanks," Derek says, hands buried in the intestinal tract of the sink. Yo? She must be hanging out with Stiles more. Those two have started swapping their small idiosyncrasies like trading cards. But haven't the lot of them, by this point?

"Are you going to come out so I can give you your present?" His little sister asks, nudging him again.

"Hang on." Derek picks up the correct wrench from his toolbelt and tightens the last bolt on this replacement piece for the dish disposal. He slides out of the dank space, wiping his hands on his grimy white t shirt. "What is it?"

From her pocket, Cora reveals a bracelet made of nondescript wooden beads and stretches it over his wrist. Upon closer inspection, the letters P A C K are etched into four of the  beads, and filled with red resin.

"Thank you," he says, a little in awe. He hadn't expected anything from her, considering they've only spent about a year reunited after Derek having thought her dead.

She shrugs. "It's kind of lame actually. I made them myself though. Look," she shows him a similar bracelet around her smaller wrist, PACK written in purple letters. "Got the idea from the internet. People go crazy over wolf stuff," she chuckles.

"No, I like it," he says honestly, twisting it around his wrist. "Sometimes little things like this are a nice sentiment." It's a much nicer sentiment of a pack's bond compared to something like matching battle scars or shared bloodlust, anyway.

"Sap," she smirks. "By the way, Stiles just messaged you." She tosses him his phone and he plucks it out of the air with a frown. He knew that, but was trying to put off facing whatever explosion of festivity the kid had most likely put together today. With a sigh, he unlocks his phone to see 4 messages from Stiles:

_U need to get 2 my house RN_

_cant explain why just HURRRY_

_it is of import_

_HELP PLS_

Derek bristles with momentary alarm, hopping to his feet. It takes him a second to realize that almost everything is "of import" if Stiles deems it so. Stiles might just want to give him a _present_. He cringes inwardly, but stays on his current track. He slips his phone in his pocket and snatches his keys off the table.

"Stiles needs help," he tells Cora, on his way out the door.

"Hope everything goes okay," she calls to him, already out in the yard. There's a nuance of something conspiratory in the way she says it, but he ignores her for now.

He'd be surprised if what's waiting for him is anything more than a simple prank, or a handful of confetti thrown in his face.

****  
  


*

****  
  


Turning onto the Stilinski's road, Derek immediately notices the error within the frame: the Jeep isn't in the driveway. That's normal for a weekday, but if Stiles had said to come here... He pulls into the space where the Sheriff's cruiser would be later in the evening and exits his car, a pebble of dread sinking in the well of his stomach. He knocks at the front door, waiting on the mat and listening for a sign of residency. Nothing. He tries the knob and it swings open without any extra force, unlocked.

"Stiles?" He calls out, waiting for the sound of a shuffle or a heartbeat, anything that might give him away if he's laying in wait to pounce. Still nothing. Just the whirr of the AC and the squeaky ceiling fan in the Sheriff's bedroom.

Shit. A mound of pebbles is building up as he digs his phone out of his pocket and hits Stiles' speed dial. A few seconds pass, then he hears it ringing from inside the house.

In Stiles' bedroom.

"Shit," Derek says out loud, already bounding up the stairs by threes. He flings Stiles' bedroom door open to find-- nothing. No Stiles, at least. No menacing smells, no sign of a struggle, just the clothes and shoes chronically littering the floor. He snatches Stiles' phone up from the bed, and rejects the call from DERPWOLF. There are also four missed calls from Scott, and two confused texts from Lydia. He's about to launch himself out the window and track him down, when another abnormality catches his eye.

On the bed propped on a pillow, sits Stiles' wooden chess set. Half of the pieces are missing but a note lays in their absence, written in Stiles' speedy handwriting:

_So you got this far, good job. I'm totally fine by the way and nobody is holding a pen in my hand and making me write this (yes my handwriting just really is this awful). So before you go trying to find me and kill me anyways, don't. You won't find me because I'm somewhere top secret. And no, not Scott's house or the vet clinic._

_But! You will have to stop by those places today, among others in order to recover my missing chessboard pieces and ultimately: YOUR BIRTHDAY PRESENT. I suggest stopping by the gas station on Grand Avenue to get a full tank, because you'll need it ;)_

__

_Happy Birthday,_

_Stiles_

_(and please make sure you get all my chess pieces, I really like this chess board)_

****  
  


Derek stares at the notebook paper, reading it twice, then crumples it up with enough force to juice an orange, blessed relief tainted with annoyance. Shows him, he thinks, for expecting little of Stiles' conniving mind.

Derek glares at the chessboard. A a whole side of the board is missing. That's sixteen pieces. Which makes sixteen places he has to go. He exhales through his nose. Of course he could circumvent the whole goose chase and hunt the boy down like the sneaky rat he is, but he won't.

He'll humor Stiles. And when he finds him, he'll do some creative things to him.

Driving up to the gas station Stiles hinted at, Derek doesn't have to wonder if he's supposed to look for a chess piece in the windshield wash station when he sees the Sheriff parked near the storefront, leaning on the driver's side door of his cruiser. Derek parks beside him and gets out, assessing in the weathered look on Mr. Stilinski's face with an inner wince.

"Please tell me," Mr. Stilinski starts before Derek can say anything, holding up a King between his thumb and pointer finger. "That I am loitering outside a gas station, sacrificing part of my lunch hour and looking like a clown for something important. Because that's what my son swore I would be doing when he begged and pleaded me to wait for you here so I could give you a piece from his chessboard." He concludes, waiting to decipher Derek's response.

"It's of the utmost importance," Derek lies with authority, willing himself to not let the Sheriff know it's just part of a stupid game. Derek would like to be the one to punish Stiles.

"Well, good." Stiles' dad hands the piece to Derek, who puts it in his pocket. That's one. Fifteen more to go. The day is starting to look very, very long.

"Did he say anything about where to go next?" Derek asks.

The sheriff rubs a pink hand over his face. "Yeah. He said, and I quote: 'He who knows you as Miguel'. Now if you'll excuse me, I have about forty minutes left for lunch. Nice seeing you."

As far as Derek knows, there are only three people who would call him by his awful nom de guerre. Danny, the nurse he conned at the hospital those months ago, and the lacrosse coach. So playing by the odds, his next stop is the school. Where, he's now realizing, Stiles _should_ be, were he not off doing... something.

Sneaking into this school unchecked is still too easy. Though he doesn't blend with the herds of the student body so seamlessly. So many curious eyes stare at him when they don't think he can see or hear their whispered conspiracies about him and his "scarily hot face".

Pushing the range of his hearing further out like stretching a rubber band, he pinpoints the coach's voice, berating someone over their grade in his class. It's kind of a grating, difficult voice to forget. He intercepts the wild-haired man in the hall just before the boy's locker room, muttering at a clipboard and absently rubbing a silver whistle between his digits. Derek steels himself before tapping on his shoulder.

"Jesus Christ! Don't you know it's not polite to scare people and potentially make them mess themselves?" He shouts, as if Derek had fallen screeching from the ceiling.

"Sorry, sir."

"Yeah, whatever. Hey wait, you don't go here," the coach muses. Then he realizes, with a quirk of the eyebrow and a finger point, "Hey aren't you uh, Stilinski's cousin? Miguel or whatever?"

"Yes," Derek says. He's never been sure how people manage to choke on their tongues, but he's willing to try it out.

"Well in that case I have something for you, from your Adderall poster-child of a cousin. I have no idea why you need this, and I don't think I even want to know, so please don't explain," he rambles as he digs around in all of his pockets, and Derek is certain the man had something for lunch that involved many onions and olives. He retrieves a Bishop and forks it over, pocket lint, gum wrapper and all. "Oh yeah, and he told me to tell you, uh, 'the number of pieces left'? Something like that. I usually tune him out."

Derek pockets the bishop next to the king and thanks the man, who is already stomping down the hall. He does his best to shake the encounter out of his head.

The number of pieces left? Fourteen. What does fourteen have to do with anything? Derek rakes the leaves of his brain for some sign of pertinence the number has. As he does, he takes a step back to let an approaching person by, whom regardless, knocks into him with their large gym bag.

"Watch out, bro," the teenage boy snaps, slapping Derek with a look of disdain as he turns back to his route.

Derek leers at the back of the jerk's head, simultaneously imagining putting him in his place and noticing the large '3' on the back of his merlot-colored lacrosse jersey. A flash epiphany has Derek snatching the boy's collar and dragging him stumbling backward in half a second.

"Hey what the hell man--!"

"Which of you is number fourteen?" Derek asks, cool. He can smell the flare of number three's aggravation, like burnt metal split through with the bug spray stench of fear.

"You mean Lahey?" Number three squeaks. "Yeah, that's Lahey-- Isaac."

"Perfect. Thank you." Derek not so much shoves him as he lets go of of the boy's collar and the boy tugs himself forward in his haste to get away, muttering "fucking weirdo" under his breath.

He doesn't have to drive anywhere to find Isaac, so that's something, at least.

Isaac is on the field, as well as Scott, running and twisting around their team mates with practiced power. Only another wolf, or someone with a keen eye for the supernatural would be able to notice the invisible tricks the boys pull. The speed of their sprints appear to be above par for a human, but are actually the abated bounds of a werewolf. Some of their evasions are almost too clean, an evolved sixth sense expanding the knowledge of their surroundings. Through it all their breath is rhythmic, unhindered by the physicality. To the mortal eye they are just two really good lacrosse players.

Derek stands in the shadow of the bleachers, waiting for an opening. He doesn't wait long. Scott must sense him and signals for a time out, jogging over with the blond beta as caboose, shucking their helmets in synchronization.

"Please tell me you know where Stiles is," Scott asks without preamble, worry raking lines in his forehead. "He like, showed up at my house last night and made us take pieces from his chessboard and swear we'd keep them with us all day."

"Actually, he paid me twenty bucks to keep mine," Isaac admits.

Scott whirls on his beta. "Seriously? He didn't offer me any money." Isaac just shrugs and Scott frowns. "Anyway, now he won't answer his phone."

"That's because I have his phone," Derek taps Stiles' phone through his pocket.

The alpha blinks. "Oh. This uh, isn't about _that_ one thing, right?" His scent gradually shifts from worried to... guilt? Changrin?

Red flags pop up. "What 'one thing'?" he asks at the same time Isaac does.

"Oh, crap he probably hasn't told you yet..." Scott mutters to himself as if neither wolf can clearly hear him. "Nevermind. It's something he needs to tell you personally."

Isaac pats his fist into his hand with a sudden epiphany. "Ohhh, _that_ one thing."

Derek glares at both of them, and leaves the matter be. For now, he revives their original converting by recapturing for them the string of events he's had this afternoon.

"So, why exactly does he need you to complete this uh, 'quest'?" Isaac asks, pulling his lip in a way that would suggest he's holding in a laugh or another, more sarcastic comment.

"Something about my birthday, I have no actual idea," Derek says and could punch himself for mentioning the date that should not be spoken of.

Scott brightens, a tiny sunrise in his eyes. "It's your birthday? Happy birthday," he pats Derek's left peck with a gloved hand.

"Yeah, I never knew you had one. Weird," Isaac sniffs.

"Thanks. Can I just have the pieces?" Derek asks, definitely doesn't whine.

The two wolves remove their gloves and dig under their pads because they must not have pockets-- Scott's Knight in under his shoulder pad and Isaac's Knight in his shoe. "Thanks, that was really starting to hurt," he adds.

"He said something like, 'the huntress and the hunted'?" Scott supplies when Derek asks for the next clue. God help him, it is a quest. And Derek must look consternated because Scott offers him a helpless tip of the shoulder.

"That'd have to be Allison and Lydia," Isaac unearths his revelation after a moment, lifting hard eyes to meet theirs in turn. "Right?"

"Right, Allison and Lydia, that totally makes sense," Scott agrees, looking at the blonde with stickiness in his smile and the cinnamon-sugar smell of adoration rise thick from his skin like pastry dough. A little something else rises in Derek's throat, but he doesn't mention it.

Isaac was right: the Argent and the banshee.

Derek found Lydia in the art classroom through the click of heels, Chanel and the scathing, hushed conversations of others. The art room still had that same smell: burnt erasers, fresh paper, dried oil paint and charcoal shavings. Alone, sat primly before a large easel, Lydia didn't break the critique of her work to acknowledge his presence.

"Huh. I didn't think you'd actually show up," she said. Sugar, spice, and more spice.

"So that means you have something for me?" He suddenly felt like a tweaker from that one show about meth.

"Yep." She tapped her pencil to her chin. "You really must like him. I mean, to put up with all the bizarre things he says and does, stupid stuff he pulls... You'd have to love him."

Caught in the proverbial crosshairs, Derek didn't say anything. The smarting of her green eyes filled in the blanks. She dug through a square yellow purse, setting not one but four Pawns on the desk beside him.

"Allison has the other four," she added flippantly, turning back to her work as if she didn't have the time to be cryptic. He was grateful. Just before he could make it out the door, she scolded, "You'd better take care of him, Derek."

He smiled out into the empty hallway. "I will."

No one bothered to mention that the littlest Argent had gone home, so having Papa Argent answer the door and look at Derek like he'd sprouted flowers from his head was fun. Allison saved the day, as she had the habit of doing, by ducking around her father and depositing the last four pawns into his hand. Her smile was tight-lipped, courtesy of their eggshell-thin tolerance of one another and Derek added, "wring Stiles' neck" to his to-do list as the Argent's door shut with a click.

Although politely hostile, Allison did disclose his next location: the vet. The clue was "beef grenade", so if she wasn't completely wary of Derek before, she is now.

Deaton was a bit less compensating, leaving Derek to sulk in the waiting room with a nervous pet owner (who bit all of their fingernails down to the quick, a delightful cadence) for almost twenty minutes as he wrapped up a procedure on one unfortunate corgi. When Deaton finished, washed his hands, returned the nail-biter's dog with a cone around its neck and scrawled something on a clipboard, he finally plucked the last Rook from his lab coat and handed it over with a clue pointing toward a certain nurse at the hospital.

Melissa McCall was thankfully at the front desk when he barely slipped between the glass sheath of automatic doors in his rush, good spirit running on fumes. She had the Queen stashed in the pocket of her pink scrubs, which left him with only two more pieces to go.

She gave him the clue: "Close your eyes and hold out your hand".

She looked doubtful, but he knew exactly where he was going next.

The sky is the color of a professionally dyed easter egg as Derek parks his car back in the Stilinski's empty driveway and starts down the sidewalk on foot. The streetlights have just come on, emitting a low electric hum and an even lower amount of sickly yellow light. Tucking into the fringe of forest, he doesn't remember how deep into the woods it was, but he remembers where he kissed Stiles for the the first time.

Memory serving its purpose, he steps in line with a tree, four smaller trunks splitting out of one. He can almost smell Stiles here-- the faintest trace of him lingers in the stale air beneath the canopy. He might just be imagining it, though.

Either way, the two last pieces (Castles) sit at the base of the tree, an orange sheet of construction paper separating them and the newly dead leaves. It reads, "HOME" in Stiles' handwriting, with "(yours)" added beneath as a visible afterthought.

His pocket full of half a chess set, Derek heads home. Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is the FINAL CHAPTER, and it's already finished, so no worries.  
> INTERESTED IN A WRITING COMMISSION? [COME HERE!](http://calamity-annie.tumblr.com/post/125440892458/writing-commissions-open)


	22. Nutella Bonus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you guys really think I could end this without a bit more Cora and Peter? No way. This is halfway for a dedicated reader (that i BARELY EDITED), I'd promised them a bonus chapter having to do with a challenge involving Nutella. It turns out there is no clear cut "Nutella challenge", so I just went with this. Sorry! Thanks for reading ;aaa;

Peter snags the jar of Nutella off the table and dips the first thing he sees from the smorgasbord of food cluttering the worn dining room table: a baby carrot stick. He dips the vegetable in the chocolate spread, getting a healthy glob and takes a bite that makes a sharp snap.  

He grimaces two chews in."The carrot is disgusting. Don't do the carrot."

Cora, at the opposite end of the table, snatches a carrot from the bag and reaches for the Nutella just as Peter slides it over. "Let me try."  She follows Peter's lead, sampling the flavor combo. "No way, this is good."

"Ugh, suit yourself." Peter steals the jar back and dips his favorite combo so far, a potato chip. His PACK bracelet slips down his wrist, green letters upside down. She made him one, disbelieving he'd actually wear it but didn't want him to bitch about being left out either. "So when is the ass-kisser getting here?"

His niece rolls her eyes. "Soon."

"Mhm. Tell me again, what exactly is this... _genius_ plan you two cooked up?"

Cora licks a bit of carrot out of her molar. "Actually it was Stiles' idea. I guess he’s sent Derek on a scavenger hunt that will probably take him a few hours. _If_ he actually decides to participate instead of just tracking Stiles down. That would be a miracle. I'm just helping him hang lights in the tree out front.”

"Alright. As long as you don't spark a fire. It's the dry season. I swear if my nephew wasn't batting for both teams and currently hitting a home run, I'd think you and the kid were meant to be."

The she-wolf scoffs around a mouth of pretzel. "Gross. And 'pitching for both teams'? There's more than two, technically."

Peter holds his hands up, apologetic.

"Also, you don't think I'm playing the field too?" A devious smile makes her eyes glitter.

The man narrows his cold eyes and his hand reaching into a box of crackers freezes. "That wouldn't explain why you've been smelling of a _certain_ banshee's perfume lately-- would it?"

"It's _Allure_ by Chanel."

"Oh my god," Peter says, stupefied. "You're actually diddling _the_ Lydia Martin. How did you manage that?"

"Ew, don't be gross. Like I'm gonna talk to my uncle about my sex life. You’re just jealous since you had a crush on her first."

"I don't need all the gory details. And I’m a 36 year old man. I am not _jealous_ and I do not have _crushes_. Especially not on eighteen year olds. "

Cora raises her eyebrows dubiously. “Sure.”

Then both wolves tilt their heads simultaneously, hearing the 1976 Jeep’s balding tires turn onto the drive.

The she-wolf pushes away from the table and brushes her hands on her nike shorts. “I'd love to fuel your fantasies, but I've got stuff to do.”

Her uncle merely tilts back on the legs of his chair and pops a chocolate coated popcorn kernel into his mouth. "I wonder what Stiles would  think of the field you're playing..."

Her feet touch the grass before the front door closes behind her, taking her to the frantically moving form of her brother's boyfriend. He’s dressed halfway nice in a faintly wrinkled button-up, tight jeans and his usual sneakers, possibly scrubbed with a toothbrush to look fresh. Though, he smells a bit frazzled, like burning toast.

“Fancy," she grins, plucking at the button on his collar.

"I look stupid, I know," Stiles gripes, nervously brushing his hands on his pants.

“Not at all,” she replies, honest. “All you need is to fix these.” She takes his arms and unbuttons his cuffs, rolling them up to his elbows. “Much better. Less nerdy, more hot.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll remember that.” He teaches into the back of his Jeep and pulls out a large cardboard box, green cord hanging out like the tentacle of something. "Will you grab the other one for me?"

"Sure."

Cora hugs a box full of string lights to her chest, tailing the boy up the warm green knoll. She's already set up a ladder under the tree for him, who definitely can't maneuver branches like she can.

"So how do you want this to look?"

"Uh I didn't really think about it. It looked good in a magazine I saw," Stiles admits, fighting a monstrous tangle of cords. "But basically we're just gonna get up on the ladder and string them through the branches. Then we'll hook them all together, then run the extension cord up to the porch-- whoa, alright, I forgot you could just climb the tree too. That works."

Cora shoots a grin down at Stiles' exasperated face from her perch in the shimmering canopy, already hanging the bulbs.

They work from there, Stiles directing the placement while detangling and feeding cord up to Cora. Once Stiles is happy with it, Cora drops to the ground in a crouch. Next they set up the folding table and two chairs Stiles brought. Cora makes a face at the white bedsheet Stiles spreads over the table top.

"It was all I had, okay?" he snaps.

She laughs, handing him the chintzy plastic platters and silverware. "No, it's cute, really," she insists.

He snorts, meticulously arranging the table settings. He makes a trip to the Jeep and returns with a white box, ripe with the smell of chocolate, her and her brother’s favorite. He places it in the center of the table, and they step back to survey their work. By this time, the sun is setting behind the dark blue treeline, throwing its last rays through the orange clouds and completing the setting. It’s too bad Derek won’t be back in time to see it. But Cora doesn’t think it will matter much when she watches Stiles fuss over the makeshift tablecloth, corner flipped up by a crisp wind.

"Is it how you you thought it would be?" Cora asks, tucking a flyaway behind her ear.

Hands on his hips, Stiles makes a "huh" noise. "Yeah, it's not bad actually. Thanks for doing most of the work," he chuckles. Then his expression shifts, anxiety warping his features. "Um, do you think he'll like it?"

Cora makes her own "huh" sound. "It's hard to say. But I think he'll like anything you do for him."

Stiles' energy relaxes a bit as he blows out his cheeks. "As long as he doesn't twist me into a pretzel."

"Maybe a sexy pretzel," she offers.

An adorable color rises up Stiles neck and he coughs, scratching the back of his head.

"I have something for you," Cora remembers, rolling a blue PACK bracelet off of her wrist. She takes his hand and transfers the string of beads to his wrist.

"Whoa." Stiles inspects his present, touching the wooden beads with careful fingers. "You have one too? Is this like a friendship bracelet?"

"Something like that."

"I love it, thanks dude."

"No problem."

They bump both fists and open them to mock jellyfish swimming away, a handshake they devised.

“Alright. According to my calculations, Mr. SourWolf will be here soon,” Stiles says.

“You made calculations?”

“Well, no. I’m just guessing.”

“Uh huh. Well we’ll be sure to clear out for you guys.”

Stiles says thanks and rests against his Jeep. Cora starts for the house but something from her earlier conversation tugs her back.

“So...” she starts out nonchalantly, leaning against the Jeep. “How would you feel about me dating Lydia?”

Stiles takes a second to make a face, as if a moth just flew into his eye. “You’re… _you_ are dating… Lydia.”

“Kind of.”

“This is Lydia _Martin_ we’re talking about, right? The red-headed, tiny body enclosed with an inordinate amount of pure evil genius and an IQ of 143? _That_ Lydia?”

“Yeah that’s her. I don’t know if I’d call it dating if all we really do is make out and eat each oth--”

Stiles waves his hands frantically to cut her off. “Whoa! Okay, okay that’s all I need to know right now.”

“But, are you okay with it? Considering you used to be crazy about her and all.”

“The correct term is ‘obsessed’, yes.” The boy drags his hands down his face and exhales through his nose. “But I’m okay with that. It’s not like we’re going to get together anytime soon right? I’m just… wow.”

“Peter said the same thing.” Cora shrugs.

“Yes I’m in as much awe as you, Stiles,” Peter calls from inside the house. “She’d promised to fill me in on the details later.”

Unintentionally, the two friends shout in unison. “ _Shut up_!”

**  
  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT CHAPTER IS THE FINAL CHAPTER  
> (but that doesn't mean there won't be an epilogue ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) )


	23. Not a Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. Wow. Just wow.  
> Here's this [chapter's music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tTWOf3Pm6Q), I felt like this was a good ending song.

To say that Derek broke a handful of traffic laws to get home would be a slight understatement. He peels up the winding ribbon dirt drive, tires cutting the final curve into the clearing of the werehouse.The evasive Jeep soaks up the spill of the porch light, taunting Derek with a flair of blue metal. Blessedly, Stiles is planted on the bumper, staring at the dirt between his shoes and he jumps up like a startled cartoon character when the camaro's lights pass over him.

Derek kills the engine and hops out, stomping toward the boy who is holding his hands up, already blabbering and taking clumsy steps backward. "Okay uh oh- hang on hang on! Please don't maim me or twist me into a pretzel. Unless it's a like, sexy pretzel. Let me explain!"

Derek stops in front of his cowering anchor, taking in the dapper state of his appearance. Baby blue button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark jeans and mostly clean sneakers. His wild hair has been tamed with product, artfully combed away from his forehead. Derek's suspicion rises a few degrees, folding his arms and regarding Stiles without much of an expression.  Unless “NO” is an expression.

Derek’s voice is fresh from the refrigerator. "Remember when you said you weren't going to do anything for my birthday?"

"I said nothing _fun_ ," Stiles corrects, nervously squeezing his digits. "I know how much you hate fun."

Derek sighs, and it may as well be the last of his soul escaping his body. He takes the twelve pieces out of his pocket and holds them out. "Then what was all this about?"

"You actually got all of them?" A coy grin sneaks across Stiles' lips as he transfers the pieces into his own pocket, forming a chunky bulge. When Derek doesn't offer more than a grunt, Stiles says quickly, "I just needed you out of the house so I could, um..." He blows out his cheeks and wipes his hands down his pants a few times before he holds one out. "C'mere."

Derek lets the hand hover between their gap, examining it and the apprehensive face he'd been missing all day before giving in, letting the familiar grasp take his own.  "I told you no surprise parties."

Stiles makes an irritated noise in his throat yet quietly leads him up the slope, toward the decrepit bench under the even more decrepit oak tree. He doesn't like the way Stiles' silence blankets the openness of the outside air, and wishes he would say something.

The sun has tucked itself into a bed of dark blue, taking the rest of the world to bed with it, desaturated. Cooling grass licks over Derek's boots and he wishes he was barefoot for it. Stiles stops and hunches to the ground, swiping his hands through the grass and coming up with two orange lengths of extension cord. Before Derek can ask what it is, he plugs it together and the world is suddenly, seemingly light again.

Derek squints, mouth parting silently.

Lightbulbs. Maybe a hundred low-watt light bulbs, all strung up through the oak branches, dangling down in flocks like white-gold will o'wisps. There's a table he'd not noticed, covered with what looks like a white bed sheet, two folding chairs poised on opposite ends. On the little table sits a sweating plastic pitcher of ice water, two plastic cups, two paper plates with plastic forks and a white box in the center. If he takes a deep breath through his nose he can smell it-- chocolate. Stiles pulls out a chair, inviting him to sit down.

Derek lets this new, gentlemanly Stiles help him with his chair and tries not to laugh. "You did all this while I was gone?"

"Cora helped me with the lights, but yeah," Stiles grunts, scooting himself into the table. "I know it's not _exquisite_ or anything but the cake you wanted was almost thirty whole bucks. And I had to give Isaac twenty to even cooperate..."

The boy rambles on, fiddling with the pitcher and pouring two cups of sweaty water and Derek lets himself settle into their little party. He looks like gold under the incandescents, a sacred vision as his eyelashes dust his ruddy cheeks. Derek can’t help but reach out and touch his moving jaw, making sure he’s real.

"It's perfect," Derek says honestly, visibly taking Stiles' apprehension down a peg. "I just wish I'd had the heads up to dress better," he smiles, eyes licking across the expanse of the boy's shoulders, rounding as he takes the lid off the bakery box to gingerly lift the beautiful cake out and set it down.

Stiles brushes it off with a “hmph”. "Why _do_ you look like a pornstar car mechanic, anyway?"

"I was under the sink when I got your messages."

"Oh. Dirty suits you."

"Like a pornstar car mechanic?" Derek prods.

Stiles' beet red cheeks offset the blue of his shirt. He unceremoniously drops a plate full of cake in front of him. "Just-- just eat your fancy cake and shut up."

The cake isn't just like he remembered having as a kid, but it doesn't matter. He eats two big pieces and Stiles makes up for the lack of taste. Halfway through his second piece, he notices the wooden bracelet on Stiles' wrist, just like his own though the letters are blue.

"Yeah, Cora made me this," Stiles says with a shake of his wrist, taking his fork out of his mouth. "You've got one too? Aw man. I thought it was a special friendship thing."

"Something like that. We've all been part of a pack since before Scott became an alpha. This... is more like a family thing," Derek supplies.

Stiles looks cowed by this information, as if having it said out loud puts weight on it. As always, his sarcasm shines through. "So's this mean you want to get personalized jackets?"

"We may as well."

Their light and their voices are the only ones for what seems like miles as they finish eating. Stiles yawns, his nose scrunches up with wrinkles almost as sweet as the ganache. The decorations Stiles and Cora executed are definitely beautiful but most likely a fire hazard, so Derek insists on turning them off before heading inside the house to put their cake away.

As Derek bends down to make room in the fridge, a wayward hand sinks into his back pocket. "Lose something?" he asks, a casual smile sneaking in.

Stiles removes his hand quickly. "Uh, nope I was just, ah..."

"Trying to be smooth?" Derek supplements after shutting the fridge, straightening up and pinning Stiles to the dining room table in one fluid move. He's impressed with it, himself.

Stiles' swallow bounces off the walls. "I admit I'm not very debonair. Unlike you, Mr. Freaking _mnh_ \--"

Derek kisses him hard, literally taking his next words out of his mouth. He breathes Stiles in, letting that initial burst of arousal crash through his body, listening to his own blood gush through his veins. Stiles fights to stay vertical as Derek pushes into him He gives up and slides back to sit on the table, Derek fitting himself between the boy's thighs. Sneakers come to rest on Derek's bum, bringing their hips flush. Less careful arms make a loop around his neck and clamy fingers card up the sharp, short-cropped hair there. Stiles' breath spills over Derek's face, hot and a little chocolatey like their first of many kisses in Stiles' bed.

After an immeasurable few minutes where he might just absorb Stiles altogether, the wolf has his normally steady hands fumbling to undo the button of Stiles' nice jeans. They slide to the floor with a little wiggling on Stiles' part, chess pieces spilling out and rolling under the table.

"Mmn--" Stiles begins to speak, pulling his lips away with a smack. "W-wait, wait," he exhales, as breathless as Derek.

Derek stills after a stolen kiss, foreheads pressed together hard. "What is it?" He asks, lips brushing over Stiles' barely stubbled jaw. God. His blood is already channeling to his cock, swelling it quicker than it has in years.

"Can we maybe not do this where everyone eats?"

Good point. Without a word, Derek scoops his anchor up and throws him over his shoulder.

"I'm not a sack of potatoes y'know!" Stiles thrashes around but not with enough real force. His heart hammers into Derek's back as he more or less bounds up the stairs to his own dimly lit bedroom, flings the door open so hard it bounces against the wall and closes again, probably leaving a dent. He heaves Stiles down (like a sack of potatoes) on the center of the bed they've shared a dozen times.

"Oof! A little gentility would be nice," Stiles snaps. He's propped belly up on his elbows, scowl painted on his face in attempt to mask his blush and freshly tousled hair. Derek gets a nice look at the hill of his erection, pushing purple briefs outward and Stiles self-consciously draws his knees together to try and hide it.

Derek kisses a smirk into that sour look and revisits the site of his anchor's clothes, deftly unbuttoning the little white buttons of his dress shirt. He can't slip the arms off before Stiles' hands are sliding up under his own shirt, testing the skin of his abdomen. Derek yanks his dirty T-shirt off in a flash, getting a whiff of his stink in the process. But Stiles returns to roaming his tacky flesh, apparently indifferent.

The wolf shivers, ducking his face into his anchor's cologne-spicy neck to plant a few suckling kisses, effectively passing his shivers on before sinking lower on the bed to bring his mouth over the sparse spiral of hair over Stiles' stomach. He kisses his navel, dips his thumbs into the elastic band of his briefs and looks up to check Stiles' expression, as his ratcheting heart isn't a definite ascension. Derek is well aware this is the first experience of this kind for him and that only makes him more desperate.

Stiles is propped up again, red-faced, clove-colored eyes half glazed with his own arousal as he stares at Derek, laying in wait between his thighs. He wets his parted lips and silently spreads his legs wider in admittance.

So Derek wastes no time freeing him from his briefs, his fat pink cock bouncing up almost comically. It's already so hard it actually smacks against his belly, leaving a pearl of pre-come. Stiles' body hitches and Derek's mouth legitimately waters with the fresh wave of pheromones crashing over him.

And... it's right about here when Derek realizes he's never in his life touched another man like this. But it can't be too confusing and now is not the time to show uncertainty. He takes it in his hand and gives an experimental tug upward. Stiles makes a soft noise between a whine and a sigh, so he takes that as a good sign to keep going.

Derek finds a rhythm in it-- squeezing hard on the way up the shaft, flicking his thumb over the head the way he personally likes. Derek licks a spilled bit of come from his knuckles, following it up over the angry red cock head and sucks him inside his mouth. What he can't swallow, he makes up for with a squeeze of his fist.

It's worth mentioning that Stiles is a wreck. Each sound he makes, every little gasp and whimper flows out of his mouth like a babbling brook, all garbled together with the occasional " _oh god_ " and "oh _Derek_ ". His hands fist above his head in Derek's sheets, same tension in his knuckles mirrored in the pinch of his brow, his slightly open mouth, twitching thighs.

"I'm-- _oh god_ I'm gonna--" Stiles cries out, but it's too late.

Stiles comes and comes. With a shake and a pretty arch of his back, his salty spunk fills up Derek's mouth. He has no choice but to swallow it (or else ruin his sheets), so he does. Maybe it's the heat of the moment, but it's not as bad as Derek had initially imagined.

Derek cleans him up a bit with his tongue and sits up to evaluate the panting mess that's left in his bed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He's still so hard it hurts, but he can't ignore the beautiful picture he's just painted.

"Holy shit..." Stiles breathes, gazing at the ceiling. "Holy shit."

He sits up, a little shaky still, and attacks Derek's pants. He could cry once Stiles finally gets his length free of its closure. Stiles takes a second to consider it before trying to get his mouth around it and take as much as he can. He goes strong with what girth he can fit in his mouth without choking. Derek feels a hand slip between his thighs, find his balls and rub a gentle circle into the soft pouch.

Derek does cry now, actually more of a feral grunt that escapes his throat as he whips his head back. His hand flies up and instinctively curls into boy's hair for no other reason than needing something to hold onto. Oh god. Either he's fifteen again or Stiles is talented.

He just watches Stiles in his lap, crouched down on all fours in delicious submission, messy mop bobbing up and down on him, squeeze-worthy ass (with a mole on the left cheek) up in the air. Derek wishes he could see his face now, that mischievous smile working around his cock, spit and come dripping from raw red lips...

"Sti-Stiles don't," Derek tries to tug him off before he comes, but Stiles only works him faster, maybe wanting to taste him.

With that single thought, Derek delivers, coming hard with another feral cry. His vision punches out all one color he can't place, body going from marble sculpture to jello mold at the mercy of his anchor's touch.

Stiles swallows once and pulls off with a small cough, only to be shot in the face with the last of Derek's come. Stiles makes a precious surprised face, wetting his abused lips. He looks up at Derek nervously, pearly trail of fluid on his cheek already congealing in the cool air.

Derek cradles his face with a trembling hand, gingerly wiping his spunk away with the pad of his thumb. Stiles rises with the touch, cradled in Derek's arms and they settle back on the bed as one.

"You're amazing," is all Derek can manage to say in an single exhale that stirs his anchor's crown.

"I might have done some research... Read some blowjob WikiHows."

Derek snorts, jostling their settlement.

"I wanted to be prepared!"

Now Derek laughs, snaking his hand up Stiles' back to make gentle circles. "You did good, all of it was good. Thank you, Stiles."

The boy mutters something like "you're welcome" into the wolf's chest, turning his head in an almost-nuzzle.

Derek lets the moment pass, post-release bliss settling on their bodies like fairy dust and thin layers of silk, putting him in a dreamy state.

Until the memory of what Scott said earlier meanders by, causing his mouth to harden into its usual frown. "Scott told me there was something you wanted to talk to me about."

Stiles stills, almost imperceptibly if it weren't for their current position. "Oh. Yeah," Stiles sniffs and Derek gives him a moment to collect his thoughts.

"So you know when you went away over the summer to become an alpha again?"

"Can't really forget it. Why?"

"Right, well... I talked to Dr. Deaton about, about the scars while you were away."

"And?"

Stiles pauses again, his heart starting to flutter. "We talked about it and he figured any alpha could help me heal. It didn't have to be just you."

Derek's heart starts sinking again, that curious feeling of pebble after pebble gathering in the well of his chest. "That would've been nice to know before I left."

"Yeah. It was a pretty stupid move. Anyway, Scott being Scott, volunteered to take the last of the visions away for me."

Scott. Scott could finally finish what Derek had started and couldn't lay to rest. A brew of joy and subconscious relief Derek didn't realize he'd needed percolates in his head. But wait.

"You still have these" Derek says, teaching the petal-soft edge of his ragged claw scars on Stiles' spine.

A shaky breath ghosts over Derek's pectoral. "That's because I didn't let Scott do it."

"But why? Why wouldn't you--"

"Because!" Stiles moves quickly, propping up on his hands either side of Derek, bearing down on him with eyes that are so sharp and intense it makes Derek start.

"Because I've never felt this way before. Ever. And yes I know it's a classic cliché thing to say. But I mean it. I've had these feelings before with Lydia, yeah, but that was a slow conquest that would have probably ended up with me in a fetal position.

This... _We're_ different. I had no idea it could be this way, so easy and so... _good_. I mean I saw Scott and Allison all wrapped up in each other and it made me more or less physically ill-- same with Isaac but he's just... Anyway I get it now. The feeling like, like being hit in the gut in a good way every time I see you. I really love you. In that gross, 'no you hang up first' way. I kind of want to punch myself."

"Stiles..."

"So this," Stiles tilts his head to indicate his back, "this is a part of me now, something we share. And I don't want to lose it and I know it's totally _completely_ crazy to think that. I'd never be happy about being physically and mentally scarred in any other circumstance."

"Stiles..."

"Not that I even have visions anymore. Besides, the scars aren't that bad. And with a little Mederma, who knows? I've heard it's pretty strong stuff."

Derek grips the boy's shoulders and squeezes gently, wrangling his stray attention span back. " _Stiles_."

Stiles, as rare as it is, gets completely still. "Yeh?"

"Shut up," Derek says tenderly, smile tickling at his mouth.

His brown eyes widen, probably abashed from the landslide of heartfelt sentiments he'd just let loose.

But if they're already on this page, Derek might as well ignite his natural disaster too. "You know how you asked me what I do to keep tame under the full moon?"

Stiles adjusts his position, folding his hands on Derek's chest to make a stage for his chin. "Um, yeah. I figured you'd just taken up yoga or had finally found your inner peace via home renovation."

"Nope.” He wishes. “It's you."

"Me?" Stiles echoes, then pushes himself up quickly to make eye contact again. " _Me_?" He repeats, sounding scandalized. "What does that mean? You anchored yourself to _me_?"

Derek simply nods, carefully keeping his marbles in the jar.

"Why? I’m flattered but that wasn’t a smart investment, Derek. I’m definitely the type of person who almost dies every other week."

“You’re not a savings bond, you idiot.” Derek fidgets under the pressure of Stiles' hands. "And well... You did just say it all.

I've never felt like I do when I'm with you. There have been other people, I've made many other mistakes. Attacking you just added to my ledger," Derek admits. "Then I came to be your... 'caretaker' and things were different between us. I liked having you under my hands. Your heart, your annoying voice even, became a beacon. I found solace in your just your scent."

“That would all sound pretty creepy if you weren’t a werewolf, ironically,” Stiles mumbles. Then he sits up proper on Derek’s stomach (his makeshift lounge chair), and Derek has to tuck his chin to look at him. “So let me get this straight. _I_ make you calm? I’m sorry I just can’t wrap my head around that little tidbit.”

“It’s ironic, alright,” Derek grunts. Regardless of creature identity, being sat on isn’t agreeable. “And it’s mostly also--” he takes Stiles’ nimble hands, urging him back down and Derek sits up enough to place a kiss on his forehead, just like the first he’d ever placed on him.

“--because I love you, too.”

Stiles blinks, a tiny smile reshaping his whole face. “I love you too.”

The wolf’s smile  mirrors his anchor’s, surging from somewhere deep inside and he wonders how these four frail walls could contain the absolute weight of his sanctity right now.

“Shut up.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am such a dork I made myself cry. There IS going to be an epilogue! It's just a matter of me physically writing it, and y'all know how I am with that :)  
> THANK YOU so much for making it this far guys. Wow. I'm most likely going to make a lame 8track full of this fic's music.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr.](http://calamity-annie.tumblr.com/post/125440892458/writing-commissions-open)


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